In the glare of the pendant bulb, Kelly was engaged artistically in the preparation of a crude but libelous cartoon of the stenographer.
A moment of rest and mental relaxation had descended upon the personal staff of Obadiah. His hive of commercial industry had, for the moment, ceased to buzz. Suddenly, the hall door was thrown open. Mr. Jones suffered a severe laceration from the point of his own blade. Even the artistic soul of Kelly was shaken by the abrupt intrusion.
Hezekiah Wilkins entered. His manner was hurried. Not as a messenger bearing joyous news of great triumphs, but rather as an emissary charged with intelligence of bitter flavor, who desires to get rid of it, that he may turn to happier matters.
Having been courteously advised by the bleeding outer guard that the manufacturer was not engaged at the moment, Hezekiah entered the inner citadel. Obadiah was reading a voluminous mass of typewritten pages which he laid aside at the coming of his attorney. Waving the lawyer to a chair, he intimated that he awaited the further pleasure of his legal adviser.
Seating himself, Hezekiah shoved both of his feet as far in front of him as his short legs would permit. He studied the aspect of his shoes thus presented, as if he had never before appreciated their beauty.
“Well?” Obadiah spoke curtly.
“I wish to discuss the matter of that young man in the hospital. Curtis is his name–I think.”
“All right,” Obadiah agreed.
Hezekiah placed his palms together and gazed upwards as if in pious meditation upon the words which he was about to utter.
Obadiah viewed the attitude of his adviser with disapprobation. “Go ahead,” he urged roughly. “Don’t take all day.”