Naturally inferring that Amos Merritt, her late guardian, and her counsel, would be the most likely to know Roma’s present abode, Hanson only took time to engage a room at an East End hotel, change his clothes and eat his breakfast, before he threw himself into a hack and drove to the old lawyer’s office.
On entering, and inquiring of the clerk in the anteroom, he was told that Mr. Merritt was in his private office, and alone.
Declining the clerk’s offer to take in his card, Hanson went and turned the knob of the communicating door and entered the rear room.
Mr. Merritt was sitting in his leather armchair, before his desk, not waiting, but leaning back and reading the morning paper. It was still early, and he had not settled to the day’s work.
He looked up on hearing the unannounced entrance of the visitor, probably taking him to be one of the clerks, coming on official business, as they frequently did.
On recognizing Hanson he started, flushed purple with indignation, and then, without laying aside his paper or rising from his chair, he demanded:
“To what cause, sir, may I attribute the insult of this intrusion?”
Hanson possessed much cool self-control, and more dignity than he had any moral right to show.
He took a chair, and seated himself, without leave, and with quiet insolence, and replied:
“I have come to inquire for my wife. Where is she?”