He presently found himself in the main thoroughfare of last night, which he now knew to be Montgomery Street.  It was more thronged than then, but he failed to be impressed, as then, with the selfish activity of the crowd.  Yet he was half conscious that his own brighter fortune, more decent attire, and satisfied hunger had something to do with this change, and he glanced hurriedly at the druggist’s broad plate-glass windows, with a faint hope that the young girl whose amused pity he had awakened might be there again.  He found California Street quickly, and in a few moments he stood before No. 85.  He was a little disturbed to find it a rather large building, and that it bore the inscription “Bank.”  Then came the usual shock to his mercurial temperament, and for the first time he began to consider the absurd hopelessness of his clue.

He, however, entered desperately, and approaching the window of the receiving teller, put the question he had formulated in his mind:  Could they give him any information concerning a customer or correspondent who had just arrived in San Francisco and was putting up at the Niantic Hotel, room 74?  He felt his face flushing, but, to his astonishment, the clerk manifested no surprise.  “And you don’t know his name?” said the clerk quietly.  “Wait a moment.”  He moved away, and Randolph saw him speaking to one of the other clerks, who consulted a large register.  In a few minutes he returned.  “We don’t have many customers,” he began politely, “who leave only their hotel-room addresses,” when he was interrupted by a mumbling protest from one of the other clerks.  “That’s very different,” he replied to his fellow clerk, and then turned to Randolph.  “I’m afraid we cannot help you; but I’ll make other inquiries if you’ll come back in ten minutes.”  Satisfied to be relieved from the present perils of his questioning, and doubtful of returning, Randolph turned away.  But as he left the building he saw a written notice on the swinging door, “Wanted:  a Night Porter;” and this one chance of employment determined his return.

When he again presented himself at the window the clerk motioned him to step inside through a lifted rail.  Here he found himself confronted by the clerk and another man, distinguished by a certain air of authority, a keen gray eye, and singularly compressed lips set in a closely clipped beard.  The clerk indicated him deferentially but briefly—­everybody was astonishingly brief and businesslike there—­as the president.  The president absorbed and possessed Randolph with eyes that never seemed to leave him.  Then leaning back against the counter, which he lightly grasped with both hands, he said:  “We’ve sent to the Niantic Hotel to inquire about your man.  He ordered his room by letter, giving no name.  He arrived there on time last night, slept there, and has occupied the room No. 74 ever since.  We don’t know him from Adam, but”—­his eyes never left Randolph’s—­“from the description the landlord gave our clerk, you’re the man himself.”