On the way across he had posted himself so far as possible about the proposed Robinson-Ray plant.  He learned that there were to be fifteen batteries of cyanide tanks, two high—­eighty-four in all—­supported by steel sub- and super-structures; the work to be completed at Krugersdorpf, twenty miles out of Johannesburg, South Africa.  The address of the company was No. 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street.  Threadneedle Street was somewhere in London, and London was the capital of a place called England.

He knew other African contracts were under consideration, but he dismissed them from his thoughts and centered his forces upon this particular job.  Once he had taken a definite scent his early trepidations vanished.  He became obsessed by a joyous, purposeful, unceasing energy that would not let him rest.

The first evening in London he fattened himself for the fray with a hearty dinner, then he strove to get acquainted with his neighbors and his environment.  The nervous force within him needed outlet, but he was frowned upon at every quarter.  Even the waiter at his table made it patent that his social standing would not permit him to indulge in the slightest intimacy with chance guests of the hotel, while the young Earl who had permitted Mitchell to register at the desk declined utterly to go further with their acquaintance.  Louis spent the evening at the Empire, and the next morning, which was Sunday, he put in on the top of a ’bus, laying himself open to the advances of anybody who cared to pay him the slightest attention.  But he was ignored; even the driver, who spoke a foreign language, evidently considered him a suspicious character.  Like a wise general, Louis reconnoitered No. 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street during the afternoon, noting the lay of the land and deciding upon modes of transportation to and from.  Under the pressure of circumstance he chose a Cannon Street ’bus, fare “tuppence.”

Now garrulity is a disease that must either break out or strike inward with fatal results.  When Sunday night came, Mitchell was about ready to fare forth with gun and mask and take conversation away from anybody who had it to spare.  He had begun to fear that his vocal cords would atrophy.

He was up early, had breakfasted, and was at 42-1/2 Threadneedle Street promptly at nine, beating the janitor by some twenty minutes.  During the next hour and a half he gleaned considerable information regarding British business methods, the while he monotonously pounded the sidewalk.

At nine-thirty a scouting party of dignified office-boys made a cautious approach.  At nine-thirty-five there came the main army of clerks, only they were not clerks, but “clarks”—­very impressive gentlemen with gloves, spats, sticks, silk hats and sack coats.  At this same time, evidently by appointment, came the charwomen—­“char” being spelled s-c-r-u-b, and affording an example of how pure English has been corrupted out in the Americas.