“Sure,” the watchman nodded his head, “but this joint’s closed see?” He said the last word with obvious triumph.
Duffy said bleakly, “Listen, punk, get going and tell Anscombe I’m here, or I’ll get you fired.”
The watchman blinked at him, then thinking it wouldn’t hurt him to inquire, he grumblingly left Duffy to cool his heels in the street. He came back again, after a delay that infuriated Duffy, and opened the iron-studded door.
“Come in,” he said shortly. “This is mighty irregular.”
Duffy stepped in and stood waiting. A flustered clerk came over to him and Duffy nodded at him. “I want that note-book I deposited,” he said shortly.
“Sure,” the clerk said. “Mr. Anscombe’s getting it for you.”
Anscombe came out of his office at the end of the hall and waved. He walked towards Duffy with a springy step. In his hand was the note-book.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he said. “I got it out as soon as the janitor brought me your name. Take it and give me a receipt. I’m doing you a favour. We oughtn’t to do business as late as this.”
Duffy took the note-book, glanced at it, put it in his pocket and scribbled his name on the slip of paper Anscombe held out to him.
“Much obliged,” he said. “I want this in a hurry, and it’s worth something.”