They went straight to Arthur’s office. There he did the Peixada documents up in a bundle, directed the same to Mr. Edwin Offenbach, and told his office boy to deliver it to Mr. Offenbach in person. Then they proceeded on foot up Broadway and down Chambers Street to the district-attorney’s.
The identical lot of supercilious clerks with whom Hetzel had had it out the day before, were lolling about now in the ante-room. “We wish to see Mr. Romer,” Hetzel announced.
Nobody seemed to be much impressed by this piece of intelligence.
“Come, you fellow,” Hetzel went on, addressing one young gentleman in particular, who appeared to have no more weighty duty to perform than the trimming of his finger-nails; “just take that card into Mr. Romer—will you?—and look sharp about it.”
The young gentleman glanced up languidly, surveyed his interlocutor with a mingling of pity and amusement, at length drawled, “Say, Jim, see what this party’s after,” and returned to his toilet.
Hetzel’s brow contracted.
“What do you want to see Mr. Romer about?” demanded Jim, leisurely lifting himself from the desk atop which he had been seated.
Hetzel’s brows contracted a trifle more closely. There was an ugly look in his eyes.
“What do I want to see Mr. Romer about?” he repeated. “I’ll explain that to Mr. Romer. What I want you to do is to conduct us to Mr. Romer’s office; and I want you to do that at short notice, or, I promise you, I’ll find out the reason why.”
Hetzel had spoken quietly, but with an inflection that was unmistakable.