“Go into the bar and tell Mr. Blaney that Jim Weeks is here.”
Blaney had been waiting for that message for the past hour, for he had told the clerk to let him know as soon as Jim should arrive, and he had expected him earlier; but now he only swore savagely at the bell-boy, and ordered another whiskey. It was the last of a long series of bracers, and it did its work a little too well.
With soldierly erectness he walked out of the bar, across the lobby, and into the writing room. Jim was writing at a desk and did not look up as Blaney entered, so the contractor went round behind him and dropped his hand heavily on Jim's shoulder.
“I want to talk to you,” he said fiercely.
Jim looked up as if to see who it was, and then turned back to his writing.
“Well, talk away,” he said.
“I want to see you in private,” said Blaney, excited to rage by Jim's indifference.
Jim affected to consider for a moment; then he rose and led the way to the office, where he told the clerk that he wanted a room for an hour or so, and that on no account must he be disturbed.
The two men climbed to the room in silence. When they reached it, Jim followed Blaney in, locked the door behind him, and put the key in his pocket. The action made Blaney nervous, and the warmth at the pit of his stomach was beginning to be succeeded by something that felt like a large lump of cold lead.
“Well,” said Jim, “we're private enough now. What have you got to say?”