“Huh!” says the old gentleman, and it was hard to tell if it was a growl or a chuckle. “My name’s Spillane, and I’m president of this concern. What is it, now? Don’t keep me standing here all day.”
“I want to t-talk to you about Jehoshaphat P. Skip.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mark Tidd.”
The old gentleman grunted again and scowled—actually scowled. I edged off because it looked to me like he was going to do something unpleasant. “So you’re Mark Tidd, are you? You’re the one that sends mysterious telegrams? What do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by sending telegrams nobody can make head or tail to?”
“I meant business when I sent it, and I m-mean business now,” says Mark.
“Come in,” says Mr. Spillane.
We followed him into the office and he jerked his head toward a couple of chairs.
“Always get down first,” says he. “Open the door myself. Get in half an hour’s thinking before the help comes.”
Mark and I nodded polite.