"There it is, sirs—and—"
"You go downstairs," whispered Carroll. "If we should find you trying to listen at the keyhole—"
His manner made it unnecessary to finish the threat. The woman departed, fluttering with excitement. Leverage's hand found the knob, and Carroll nodded briefly. The door was flung open, and the two men entered.
"What the—"
The occupant of the room leaped to his feet and stood staring, his face gone pasty white, his demeanor one of terror, which Carroll could see he was fighting to control. Leverage closed the door gently and gazed at the man upon whom they had called.
William Barker was not a large man; neither was he small. He was one of those men of medium height, whose physique deceives every one save the anatomical expert. To the casual observer his weight would have been catalogued at about a hundred and forty. At a glance Carroll knew that it was nearer a hundred and eighty. Normal breadth of shoulder was more than made up for by unusual depth of chest. Ready-made trousers bulged with the enormous muscular development of calf and thigh. The face, clean-shaven, was sullen with the fear inspired by the sudden entrance of Carroll and Leverage; and there was more than a hint of evil in it. As they watched, the sullenness of expression was supplanted by a leer, and then by a mask of professional placidity—the bovine expression which one expects to find in the average specimen of masculine hired help.
The man's demeanor was a combination of abjectness and hostility. He was plainly frightened, yet striving to appear at ease.
Carroll and Leverage maintained silence. Barker fidgeted nervously, and finally, when the strain became too great, burst out with:
"Who are you fellers? Whatcha want?"
Carroll spoke softly.