Hasbrouck, tall and hawklike, loomed like a human scarecrow in the center of the room. He felt a certain superiority over his host, as he went to the chair toward which old Glendenning motioned.
“Come in, Larkin!” rasped Glendenning.
The quiet-faced man at the door obeyed. He closed the door behind him, and stood within, in the attitude of a servant awaiting his master’s next order.
AN oddly assorted trio! Larkin was the only one who presented a neat appearance. He was virtually self-effacing as he stood beside the door. His pale face formed a marked contrast to the dark, well-pressed suit he wore.
“Well?” questioned old Glendenning shrilly. “What do you want, Hasbrouck? Why have you come here?”
“The usual matter, Mr. Glendenning,” replied Hasbrouck, in a deliberate tone. “I am still searching for Robert Buchanan.”
“Why annoy me, then?” responded the old man testily. “I have told you several times that I have no idea where he may be.”
“I thought perhaps that you might have received some news. It has been two weeks since I last called to see you.”
Glendenning’s eyes flashed suddenly. The steely glint surprised Hasbrouck. His gaze dropped to the arms of Glendenning’s chair, and he observed the old man’s clawlike hands as they gripped the arms.
There was strength in Glendenning’s thin, curved fingers — remarkable strength. It was something that Hasbrouck had not noticed before.