“Sorry about the delay, sir,” he apologized to Chatham. “It’s our orders, you know.”
HORACE CHATHAM did not reply. As the door closed, he leaned against the wall of the elevator, and fought to gain composure.
The smooth, rapid speed of the elevator seemed to restore his confidence. When the operator opened the door at the fortieth floor, he was amazed at the change in Horace Chatham. The man stepped from the elevator with a springy stride, his expression of worry completely gone.
The visitor stood in the anteroom of an apartment that occupied the entire fortieth floor of the building. A single door faced the elevators. There was a bell beside the door. Chatham rang it, and the door opened, released by some mechanical means.
Chatham stepped into a long, dimly-lighted hallway, and the door closed behind him. On the left, the entire wall was fronted with massive bookcases, filled with rows of bound volumes. On the right were several armchairs, and a writing table.
Evidently this was a library. But before Horace Chatham had time to make a minute study of his surroundings, a door opened at the far end of the hallway, and the figure of a tall man stood outlined in the brighter light of the room beyond.
Horace Chatham stepped forward eagerly. The man in the doorway was none other than his host, Doctor Albert Palermo. The two men shook hands; then Palermo took his guest inside and motioned to a comfortable armchair in the corner of the room.
Chatham mopped his forehead as he took his seat. Then he looked up to see Doctor Palermo studying him with quizzical eyes.
THERE was something about Doctor Palermo that commanded instant attention. His face was smooth, and sallow. His hair was short-cropped and slightly gray. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed powerful, and keenly observant.
It was impossible to estimate the man’s age. Chatham knew that he must be past forty — but beyond that he could venture no opinion.