A grimy little hand shot out for the coin. Then she said:
“He lives back there, in the last room. Knock hard on the door. Maybe he’s drunk.”
Kenyon picked his way along the dirty hall, and rapped at the door at the end.
“Who’s there?” growled a rough voice.
“How are you, Brady?” responded Kenyon. “Can I come in?”
XIII
KENYON MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
“The deeds of one’s youth are long remembered.”
—The Strategy of Nunez.
The voice growled something in an undertone that Kenyon could not understand. But he promptly took it as an invitation to enter, and so pushed open the door. A thick-shouldered man with a dark, bloated face was stretched upon a broken-springed sofa; and as Kenyon entered he lifted himself to a sitting position.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled.