“Well, you tell him we don’t admit visitors. If he’s got business, let him name it.” He turned again to the inter-phone and reviled the engine room savagely.
M’liss’, pausing long enough for a generous sniff of snuff, trailed out again, to return presently with the ghost of a grin on her lackluster face. “Feller says to name hit to yo’ that his business is pleasure.”
“Tell him to go to the devil!”
“Gime this hyar kyard,” she drawled, producing a small square of pasteboard with its block letters faintly embossed. “Said he ’lowed mebbe hit’d be the Open Sessymer—whatever that is.”
Luke Manders, still at the telephone, reached for it with his free hand. “Good God A’mighty!” he gasped.
“Is that who ’tis?” Miss Tolliver allowed herself a brief excursion in mirth. “Acts uppity ’nuff to be!”
“Ask him in! Tell him to come in, you fool! What are you waiting for? Bring him here. No—wait—” he looked hastily about the cluttered old office, and frowned. “Ask him to sit down in the front entrance, there—take out a chair for him. Tell him I’ll be with him in ten minutes—five minutes! And hurry up!” He almost pushed her out of the room, but in a surprisingly short interval, considering her rate of speed, she was back again.
“Feller’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“How in time’d I know? Jes’ plain up’n went.” She bent suddenly and spat through the window.