"Garrison?" he said sharply. "Wicks—I'm Wicks."
"Wicks?" said Garrison. "Come in."
Mr. Wicks stepped in with a snap-like alacrity. "Read your letter," he said—"read your letter."
Obediently Garrison perused the missive in hand, typed on the steel-plate stationery of the New York Immutable Life Insurance Company:
"DEAR SIR:
"At the recommendation of our counsel, Mr. Sperry Lochlan, who is still abroad, we desire to secure your services in a professional capacity. Our Mr. Wicks will call upon you this afternoon to explain the nature of the employment and conclude the essential arrangements.
"Respectfully yours,
"JOHN STEFFAS,
"Dep't of Special Service."
A wave of gratitude toward Lochlan, the lawyer who had first employed him, and advised this New York office, surged with another, of almost boyish joy, through Garrison's being. It seemed almost absurd that two actual clients should thus have appeared within the hour. He looked up at the little man with a new, keen interest.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Wicks," he said. "Will you please sit down?
I am at your service."
Mr. Wicks snatched a chair and sat down. It was quite a violent maneuver, especially as that sinister grin never for a moment left his features. He took off his hat and made a vicious dive at a wisp of long, red hair that adorned the otherwise barren top of his head. The wisp lay down toward his left ear when thus adjusted. He looked up at Garrison almost fiercely.