CHAPTER III
MIDNIGHT ON RUSSIAN HILL
A FEW moments later John Quincy stepped ashore in San Francisco. He had taken not more than three steps across the floor of the Ferry Building when a dapper Japanese chauffeur pushed through the crowd and singling out the easterner with what seemed un- canny perspicacity, took complete charge of him.
Roger Winterslip, the Jap announced, was too busy to meet ferries, but had sent word that the boy was to go tip to the house and after establishing himself comfort- ably there, join his host for lunch down- town. Grati- fied to feel solid ground once more beneath his feet, John Quincy followed the chauffeur to the street. San Fran- cisco glittered under the morning sun.
"I always thought this was a foggy town," John Quincy said.
The Jap grinned. "Maybe fog come, maybe it do not. Just now one time maybe it do not. Please." He held open the car door.
Through bright streets where life appeared to flow with a pleasant rhythm, they bowled along. Beside the curbs stood the colorful carts of the flower venders, un- necessarily painting the lily of existence. Weary trav- eler though he was, John Quincy took in with every breath a fresh supply of energy. New ambitions stirred
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