The man grinned back:
“And who are you?”
He had shoved his right leg into the opening, and with his question he gave a powerful push that almost knocked Brainard from his feet.
“Well?” he said, once within the office, grinning more broadly. “I’m Farson—Edward, Jr.—from the Despatch. We just had a wire from New York that Krutzmacht’s been found, dead!”
“Dead!” Brainard exclaimed.
“Had a stroke or something, and died this morning in a hospital. One of our old men down East got on to it, and tipped us the wire.”
The intruder settled himself comfortably on the top of the stenographer’s little desk, and drew out a cigarette. Dangling his fat legs, he eyed Brainard with an amused stare.
The latter stood for the moment dumfounded. Although he had at first looked for this outcome, as the days had gone by he had come to believe that the old man was recovering. Now he realized swiftly that with Krutzmacht dead his power of attorney was no better than a piece of blank paper. His position was doubly tenuous.
“Say!” The reporter interrupted his meditation in a burst of cynical confidence. “The old man was a good pirate—fought to the last ditch, and then got out.”
“What makes you think he got out?” Brainard inquired.