At the studio he descended, saying to Skidder that he’d be back in a moment.
But it was very evident when he entered his office that he had not expected to find Max Sondheim there; and he hesitated on the threshold, his white-gloved hand still on the door-knob.
“Come in, Puma; I want to see you,” growled Sondheim, retaining his seat but pocketing The Call, which he had been reading.
“To-morrow,” said Puma coolly; “I have no time–––”
“No, now!” interrupted Sondheim.
They eyed each other for a moment in silence, then Puma shrugged:
“Very well,” he said. “But be quick, if you please–––”
“Look here,” interrupted the other in a menacing voice, “you’re getting too damned independent, telling me to be quick! I had a date with you here at five o’clock. You thought you wouldn’t keep it and you left at four-thirty. But I stuck around till you ’phoned in that you’d stop here to get some money. It’s seven o’clock now, and I’ve waited for you. And I guess you’ve got enough time to hear what I’m going to say.”
Puma looked at him without any expression at all on his sanguine features. “Go on,” he said.
“What I got to say to you is this,” began Sondheim. “There’s a kind of a club that uses our hall on off nights. It’s run by women.”