“Hold on there! I 'll be down in a minute.” The minute was not a quarter gone when the same voice was heard through the door, saying, “You haven't told me your names yet.”
“Are you going to open this door?”
“Yes, yes. Don't get impatient now.” The bolt slid back, and the door opened a few inches. These inches were promptly occupied by Beveridge's foot.
“What's your name, my friend?” asked the special agent.
“Van Deelen. I don't see what you want here. There ain't nobody here but us.”
“We 'll see about that.” Beveridge, as he spoke, threw his weight on the door and forced it open so abruptly that the farmer was thrown back against the wall. He entered with Smiley close at his heels. “Of course,” he went on, as he shut it behind him, “if there isn't anything really the matter here, you won't mind my looking around a little.”
“Why, no—oh, no—only—”
“Only what?”
“My wife's down sick, and any noise or excitement might upset her.”
“Nervous trouble, maybe.”