The door was locked; the room in disorder. Safe, letter-files, cupboards, desks had been torn open and their contents littered the place.
Skidder, in an agony of perspiring fright, kept running about the room like a distracted squirrel. Jim watched him, darkly preoccupied with other things, including the whereabouts of Mr. Pawling.
“You say,” he said to Skidder, “that Mr. Pawling will confirm what you have told me?”
“John D. Pawling knows damn well I own this plant!”
Jim shook his head: “I’m sorry, but that isn’t sufficient. I can only repeat to you that there is no point in calling me in at present. You have no legal right to offer this property for sale. It belongs, apparently, to the creditors of your firm. What you require first of all is a lawyer–––”
“I don’t want a lawyer and I don’t want publicity before I get something out of this dirty mess that scoundrel left behind!” cried Skidder, snapping his eyes like mad and swinging his arms. “I got to get something, haven’t I? Isn’t this property mine? Can’t I sell it?”
“Apparently not, under the terms of your agreement 347 with Puma,” replied Jim, wearily. “However, I’m willing to hear what Mr. Pawling has to say.”
“You mean to tell me, Puma fixed it so I’m stuck with all his debts? You mean to say my own personal property is subject to seizure to satisfy–––”
“I certainly do mean just that, Mr. Skidder. But I’m not a lawyer–––”
“I tell you I want to get something for myself before I let loose any lawyers on the premises! I’ll make it all right with you–––”