There was a map of the continent upon the wall, across which Jim
Hegan's railroads stretched like scarlet ribbons. There were also
heads of bison and reindeer, which Hegan had shot himself.
Montague had to wait only a minute or two, and then he was escorted
through a chain of rooms, and came at last to the magnate's inner
sanctum. This was plain, with an elaborate and studied plainness,
and Jim Hegan sat in front of a flat mahogany desk which had not a
scrap of paper anywhere upon it.
He rose as the other came in, stretching out his huge form. "How do
you do, Mr. Montague?" he said, and shook hands. Then he sat down in
his chair, and settled back until his head rested on the back, and
bent his great beetling brows, and gazed at his visitor.
The last time that Montague had met Hegan they had talked about
horses, and about old days in Texas; but Montague was wise enough to
realise that this had been in the evening. "I have come on a matter
of business, Mr. Hegan," he said. "So I will be as brief as
possible."
"A course of action which I do my best to pardon," was the smiling
reply.
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