"Well," said Walcott, "he reminds me of a great world-weary cynic,
transplanted from some ancient mysterious empire. When I come into
the man's presence I feel instinctively the grip of his intellect.
I tell you, St. Clair, Randolph Mason is the mysterious man of New
York."

At this moment a messenger boy came into the room and handed Mr.
Walcott a telegram. "St. Clair," said that gentleman, rising, "the
directors of the Elevated are in session, and we must hurry." The
two men put on their coats and left the house.

Samuel Walcott was not a club man after the manner of the Smart
Set, and yet he was in fact a club man. He was a bachelor in the
latter thirties, and resided in a great silent house on the avenue.
On the street he was a man of substance, shrewd and progressive,
backed by great wealth. He had various corporate interests in the
larger syndicates, but the basis and foundation of his fortune was
real estate. His houses on the avenue were the best possible
property, and his elevator row in the importers' quarter was indeed
a literal gold mine. It was known that, many years before, his
grandfather had died and left him the property, which, at that
time, was of no great value. Young Walcott had gone out into the
gold-fields and had been lost sight of and forgotten. Ten years
afterwards he had turned up suddenly in New York and taken
possession of his property, then vastly increased in value. His
speculations were almost phenomenally successful, and, backed by
the now enormous value of his real property, he was soon on a level
with the merchant princes. His judgment was considered sound, and
he had the full confidence of his business associates for safety