He opened the door, took one step forward, and then stopped dead.
Sitting on the bunk with his legs crossed and a book resting on his knee was Haller.
He was wearing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. He removed them very deliberately and looked up. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Graham,” he said cheerfully.
Graham found his tongue. “I don’t …” he began.
Haller’s other hand came from under the book. In it was a large self-loading pistol.
He held it up. “I think,” he said, “that this is what you have been looking for, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Graham looked from the gun to the face of the man who was holding it: the long upper lip, the pale blue eyes, the loose yellowish skin.
“I don’t understand,” he said, and put out his hand to receive the gun. “How …?” he began and then stopped abruptly. The gun was pointing at him and Haller’s forefinger was on the trigger.
Haller shook his head. “No, Mr. Graham. I think I shall keep it. I came for a little talk with you. Supposing you sit down here on the bed and turn sideways so that we can face one another.”