“How do you dare to come into my private office in this fashion?”
“I have waited in that anteroom every day for ten days, trying to get an audience. The door was open just now and I came in.”
“It's your own fault if you haven't seen me. I see men who have business with me and who send in an explanation of that business.”
“So I have been told by that man,” stated Farr, pointing to Briggs, who was groping about on the carpet. “But my business with you couldn't be discussed through a third party.”
“Now that you're in here, what is that business?”
“I'll tell you first what it is not, so that there won't be any misunderstanding in your mind about me. I am not here to borrow money, beg money, ask for work, ask for a personal favor of any kind, solicit a political job, nor have I anything to sell to you or to give to you. So, you see, my business is different.”
With a quick motion he brought out a parcel which he had held concealed in the broad-brimmed hat.
Briggs straightened up on his knees and remained thus, seemingly paralyzed, staring at the parcel.
The capitalist sank back in his chair, his face growing greenish white.
“Don't you throw that bomb!” he gasped. In his panic he was not able to deduce any other explanation for the presence of this stranger who had so strenuously disclaimed all reasonable motives for his visit. He quailed before this man who seemed to be a dangerous crank—for Farr's attire was out of the ordinary and his eyes were flashing and his poise was that of a man sure of himself.