He would have to leave town, of course—the sooner the better. He might as well take the evening train to Chicago and make his plans to start afresh. There was nothing to hold him here; everything was paid, even to the interest on the mortgage. The mortgage still had six months to run.
"Why not?" Dennis suddenly came to his feet. "I can shut up this coop, and they can't touch it for six months! The property may deteriorate, of course; mice will eat the rollers, and the ink will dry up, and the presses won't be oiled—but that's old Dribble's lookout, not mine! I still have six months left! A stroke of luck——"
"Ahoy, matey!" billowed a voice. "Ahoy, Dennis! Where are you, skipper?"
A monstrous voice was that, a roaring thunderous voice that filled the dingy old back room with rolling waves of sound. Startled, Tom Dennis reached to the nearest electric bulb, switched it on, and directed the light toward the door of the outer office.
There, standing in the doorway, he saw a surprising figure. The stranger was two inches taller than Dennis, who himself stood six feet one. Not particularly well dressed was the intruder—rough blue serge, manifestly hand-me-downs, and a white soft shirt with loosely-knotted cravat. But the face—the face was the thing!
A peculiar face it was, for in it was emphasized the trait common to most men. Its left side was regular enough. The right brow, however, was uptwisted satanically; the right side of the mouth was down-twisted in a leer. Seldom had Tom Dennis seen this dissimilarity between the two sides of a man's face so pronounced. Aside from this, it was a massive strong face, lighted by two very direct, piercing, predatory eyes of light-blue, and crowned by flaming red hair.
"Ha!" said the stranger, coming forward. "You're Dennis?"
"You're right." And a sour smile twisted the lips of the newspaper man. "My name is Dennis, right enough. You've got another bill to present?"
The other halted, and stared at him.
"Bill?" he repeated. "Bill? Paying your bills, are you?"