The corner of Van Ness and Potter revealed a six-story concrete
building, its plate-glass frontage upon the sidewalk displaying three or
four beautifully finished automobiles upon a polished oak floor. The
sign across the front bore the heraldry of the card. He walked in,
accosted the first man he saw, and was waved to a flight of stairs
reaching a mezzanine floor. Gaining that he discovered in a short
corridor a door bearing upon its name-plate the legend:
Mr. John P. Henderson.
Private.
Thompson looked at his watch. It lacked but two minutes of ten. He
knocked, and a voice bade him enter. He found himself face to face with
the master of the gray car. Mr. John P. Henderson looked more imposing
behind a mahogany desk than he did on the street. He had a heavy jaw and
a forehead-crinkling way of looking at a man. And--although Thompson
knew nothing of the fact and at the moment would not have cared a
whoop--John P. was just about the biggest toad in San Francisco's
automobile puddle. He had started in business on little but his nerve
and made himself a fortune. It was being whispered along the Row that
John P. was organizing to manufacture cars as well as sell them--and
that was a long look ahead for the Pacific coast.
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