I could not take money intended for Henry Wilton. But here was the
first chance to get at the heart of this dreadful business. The writer
of the note, I must suppose, was the mysterious employer. If I could
see her I could find the way of escape from the dangerous burden of
Henry Wilton's personality and mission.

But which bank could be meant? The only names I knew were the Bank of
California, whose failure in the previous year had sent echoes even
into my New England home, and the Anglo-Californian Bank, on which I
held a draft. The former struck me as the more likely place of
appointment, and after some skilful navigating I found myself at the
corner of California and Sansome Streets, before the building through
which the wealth of an empire had flowed.

I watched closely the crowd that passed in and out of the treasure-
house, and assumed what I hoped was an air of prosperous indifference
to my surroundings.

No one appeared to notice me. There were eager men and cautious men,
and men who looked secure and men who looked anxious, but neither man
nor woman was looking for me.

Plainly I had made a bad guess. A hasty walk through several other
banks that I could see in the neighborhood gave no better result, and I
had to acknowledge that this chance of penetrating the mystery was
gone. I speculated for the moment on what the effects might be. To
neglect an order of this kind might result in the withdrawal of the
protection that had saved my life, and in turning me over to the
mercies of the banditti who thought I knew something of the whereabouts
of a boy.