“You are tired, aren’t you, Mac? Give ’em some infant feeding and a dose of paregoric once around! Buck up, old man! I suggest you tell the truth, the whole truth, and let them create their own suspicions.
“Remember they were hand-picked by the Rockefeller Foundation. They are intelligent. Newspaper reporters grown up ... and you’re a whiz with newspaper reporters. Call me if you need me. ’By!”
Dr. MacArthur was reassured. Like an oak, Harrison! Tried, staunch and straight!
His secretary entered and said, “Two men and a woman to see you, sir.”
“Show them in, please.”
The two men were carrying handbags and overcoats. The first was tall and dignified. He had a long square body. Everything about him was muscular, under perfect control and heavy-set. His eyes, suit, overcoat, and hair were gray. His teeth were strong and even. His eyes showed the same steely calm that Bear Sterling’s had. Judgmatical. The enemy was death; the man you were after, or yours. So far he had been lucky, and he had a lucky man’s nonchalance.
“Dr. MacArthur? Matthew Higgins is my name.”
His voice was deep and buoyant.
His handclasp was like a vice. It steadied Dr. MacArthur like a cup of strong coffee.
The voice continued: