"Oof!" he said by way of greeting. "Uhhhh!"
Fleetwood understood perfectly; it was probably quite a shock to the little fellow. He nodded in affable reply and filtered through the door into the entry.
As his host finally managed to rattle the door into a closed position, he made his way into the living room which was straight ahead. A wall of glass, to the left, afforded an unbroken and dramatic view of the city. The furniture was functionally modern, and to the right was a sort of alcove containing a desk, typewriter and three file cabinets. The over-all effect was very glittering, very urbane.
"You've got a nice lay-out here," Fleetwood commented chattily.
Quivering visibly in the doorway, his host, however, was in no frame of mind for conversational hanky-panky about interior decoration.
"You...!" he erupted. "You are!"
"Of course," Fleetwood nodded. "I told you I was, didn't I?"
"But you can't be!"
"I had a hunch you were going to say that," Fleetwood said.