The next instant the figure of a man loomed in the doorway and stopped still, his keen, dark eyes flashing swiftly from one surprised face to another. He was fairly tall, and rather dark, with coal-black hair and a crisp, well-clipped, black mustache. His features were good, but his face wore an expression of domineering harshness which did not improve it. It was evident that he was a man accustomed to having his own way. It was equally plain that at the present moment he was restraining his anger with difficulty.
And he was not Barry Lawrence, nor had any one of the party ever laid eyes on him before.
CHAPTER XI
THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE DOOR.
For a moment the silence was unbroken. Then the stranger stepped inside the room and set down the suit case he carried.
“Well!” he snapped. “Might I ask what this means?”
He looked at Merriwell, who happened to be seated nearest the door, and his voice quivered with suppressed rage. Dick returned his glance calmly.
“You are quite at liberty to ask anything you please,” he replied coolly; “but if you expect an answer you’ll have to be considerably more definite.”
The man’s teeth clicked together.
“What do you mean by taking possession of this house?” he ripped out. “How dare you break into another man’s place and make yourselves at home here? A lot of tramps and loafers! It’s outrageous!”