“Oh, hello, Mann!” said he. “Come in.” Then, observing the stick: “What's the matter?”
“A little arch trouble. Nothing at all.” And Peter limped in.
Peter, as on former occasions, felt the power of the fellow. It was altogether in character that he should exhibit no surprise, though Peter Ericson Mann had never before appeared before him at that door. (He would never know that it was Peter's seventh call within an hour and a half.)
Peter was at his calmest and most effective.
He looked casually about at the scant furniture, the soap boxes heaped with books, the kerosene stove, symbol of Zanin's martyrdom to his art.
“Zanin,” he said, “two things stuck in my mind the other night when you and I had our little talk. One was the fact that you had got hold of a big idea; and that a man of your caliber wouldn't be giving his time to a proposition that didn't have something vital in it.... The other thing is Sue Wilde.”
Zanin was tipped back in an armless wooden chair, taking Peter in with eyes that were shrewd and cold, but not particularly hostile.
“I didn't realize at the time what an impression that girl was making on me. But I haven't been able to shake it off. She has something distinctly unusual—call it beauty, charm, personally—I don't know what it is. But she has it.”
“Yes,” said Zanin, “she has it. But see here, Mann, the whole situation has changed since then—”
“Yes,” Peter broke in. “I know.”