“Are you an expert?” asked Jack.  The way people searched his title, examined his tax receipts and rammed hypodermics into his property without permission was, to say the least, amusing.

“Been at it thirty years,” replied Ballantree in a tone that settled all doubt on the subject.

“It is a low-grade ore, you know,” explained Jack, feeling bound to express his own doubts of its value.

“No, it’s a high-grade ore,” returned Ballantree with some positiveness; “that is, it was when we got down into it.  But I’m not here to talk about percentage—­that may come in later.  I came to save Mr. Guthrie’s time.  I was to bring you down to see him if you were the man and everything was clean, and if you’ll go—­and I wouldn’t advise you to stay away—­I’ll meet you at his office at twelve o’clock sharp; there’s his card.  It isn’t more than four blocks from here.”

Jack took the card, looked on both sides of it, tucked it in his inside pocket, and said he would come, with pleasure.  Ballantree nodded contentedly, pulled a cigar from his upper breast pocket, bit off one end, slid a match along his trousers until it burst into flame, held it to the unbitten end until it was a-light, blew out the blaze, adjusted his derby and with another nod to Jack—­ and the magic words—­“Twelve sharp”—­passed out into Broadway.

Ten minutes later—­perhaps five, for Jack arrived on the run—­Jack bounded into Peter’s bank, and slipping ahead of the line of depositors, thrust his overheated face into the opening.  There he gasped out a bit of information that came near cracking the ostrich egg in two, so wide was the smile that overspread Peter’s face.

“What—­really!  You don’t say so!  Telegraphed you?  Who?”

“A Mr. Ballantree,” panted Jack.  “I have just left him at the Astor House.”

“I never heard of him.  Look out, my boy—­don’t sign anything until you—­”

“Oh, he is only the general manager.  It’s a Mr. Guthrie—­Robert A. Guthrie—­who wants it.  He sent Mr. Ballantree.”

“Robert Guthrie!  The banker!  That’s our director; that’s the man I told you of.  I gave him your address.  Go and see him by all means and tell him everything.  Talk just as you would to me.  One of the best men in the Street.  Not a crooked hair on his head, Jack.  Well—­well—­this does look like business.”

“Pardon me, sir, one minute, if you please—­” interpolated Peter to an insistent depositor whom Jack in his impatience had crowded out.  “Now your book—­thank you—­And Jack”—­this over the hat of the depositor, his face a marvel of delight—­“come to my rooms at four—­wait for me—­I’ll be there.”