Out in the glass-walled veranda it was cooler, and the conversation was more subdued. Collis recognised bank presidents and Montgomery Street financiers, and several other whiskery and respectable faces from Barry and Patten’s and the Auction Lunch. In one corner, in a basketwork chair, a bearded man with concentrated eyes was talking with almost frightening intensity to a circle of enthralled young women. ‘That’s Herman Melville,’ Jessie Frémont whispered, in passing. ‘A very promising young talent. Have you read anything of his?’

Collis shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to say that my recent reading has been confined to the labels of patent hangover cures. But I guess that’s San Francisco for you. Libation first, luncheon second, and literature last of all.’

Jessie Frémont took them to the far end of the veranda, overlooking the Bay. It was dark outside now, except for a last mauvish swirl of clouds over the western hills behind them.

Collis recognised John Frémont from pictures in the San Francisco newspapers. He wasn’t much more than medium height, with a faded suntan, and eyes that were hooded and sad. He was talking to a tall man who stood with his back to Collis; and while he talked, he stroked his beard as if he needed reassurance that he was still there, and that he wasn’t out on some dust-blasted trail, or up to his waist in snow in the High Sierras. His evening coat hung on him as if he had lost weight since he was first measured up for it, and his necktie was floppy and carelessly tied. But he was good-looking, in a melancholy way, and when Jessie came up he gave her a look of welcome that would have charmed anyone.

Jessie took his arm. ‘John, my dear. You must meet Mr Collis Edmonds, from New York. You already know Mr Andrew Hunt.’

John Frémont gave a brief nod, and shook hands absent-mindedly. ‘I’m pleased to know you, Mr Edmonds. Welcome to San Francisco.’

It was then that the tall man to whom he had been talking turned around. It was Laurence Melford. He was looking tired, with that particular tiredness brought on by too many late-night dinners and too much champagne. He kept his hands by his sides, but he nodded to Andy, and then to Collis, and said, ‘Gentlemen,’ in a bass voice that was both dignified and warning.

‘How do you like our city, Mr Edmonds?’ asked John Frémont. ‘Have you found a place to live yet? Our hotels are fine, well up to New York standards, but I’m afraid they’re rather crowded. New people arriving by the minute.’