“You will find this no dream, but stern reality, Vance Thornton,” said his visitor in a familiar voice, sitting erect.
Tearing off his snow-white whiskers and pushing back his old sunburned felt hat, he sat revealed as Edgar Vyce.
It cannot be denied that the boy operator was thoroughly astounded at the rascal’s audacity in thus venturing back on the scene of his crime.
But he recovered his presence of mind in a moment.
His fingers moved to one of the electric buttons on the end of his desk.
“Stop!” commanded Vyce, in a low, concentrated tone, raising one hand which held a brown, cylinder-like missile. “Move another inch and I’ll blow you and your desk into La Salle street, and the wall with you.”
Vance instinctively paused.
“That’s right. I see you’ve got some common-sense,” said Vyce grimly.
“What brought you here?” asked the boy, playing for time.
“Business?”