At eleven o'clock he went back to the Benedict, and was told that Mr. Akers had come in.
It was Akers himself who opened the door. Because the night was hot he had shed coat and shirt, and his fine torso, bare to the shoulders and at the neck, gleamed in the electric light. Willy Cameron had not seen him since those spring days when he had made his casual, bold-eyed visits to Edith at the pharmacy, and he had a swift insight into the power this man must have over women. He himself was tall; but Akers was taller, fully muscled, his head strongly set on a neck like a column. But he surmised that the man was soft, out of condition. And he had lost the first elasticity of youth.
Akers' expression had changed from one of annoyance to watchfulness when he opened the door.
“Well!” he said. “Making a late call, aren't you?”
“What I had to say wouldn't wait.”
Akers had, rather unwillingly, thrown the door wide, and he went in. The room was very hot, for a small fire, littered as to its edges with papers, burned in the grate. Although he knew that Akers had guessed the meaning of his visit at once and was on guard, there was a moment or two when each sparred for an opening.
“Sit down. Have a cigarette?”
“No, thanks.” He remained standing.
“Or a high-ball? I still have some fairly good whiskey.”
“No. I came to ask you a question, Mr. Akers.”