"Of course," admitted Good patiently. "But all rules have exceptions."
"We know none here, sir," said the old man pompously, while loungers in the ante-room smiled their enjoyment of the scene.
"But, my dear man," cried Good in exasperation, "I don't want to write him a letter. I want to talk to him. Will you take this in, or will I have to take it myself?" He seemed so capable of carrying out the latter alternative that after some further protestation the disgusted warder disappeared into the private offices.
Almost immediately he reappeared, a faint but plainly triumphant smile curling the corners of his lips.
"Mr. Bassett says—" he paused significantly. Then he added suavely, "He regrets that he is very busy and is unable to see you."
Good smiled. "That's old stuff," he said placidly, with his hand on the wicket. Without further parley he opened it and marched in.
A small man in his shirt sleeves, his thin lips grimly compressed, sat at a desk piled high in disorderly confusion, chewing an unlighted cigar. He did not look up as Good entered. But at the latter's deprecating cough he wheeled around in his chair and glared savagely.
"How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded.
"Through the doorway," replied Good mildly.
"That door says 'private'—and I'm busy."