“Sure.”
“Supposing there’s nobody around. The office is closed.”
“Go to the supply room, on the ground floor. The watchman will let you get what you want. All you have to do is to write out a requisition form and put it on the spindle on the desk. You’ll see it.”
“Can you get supplies as easily as that?” Bob asked.
“Surely! Why not?”
Curt and Bob made no comment. The former went to execute Lang’s request.
In the offices, as he neared the open door of the bookkeeper’s little cubby of a room, Curt heard two low voices. He hesitated. He was close enough to be able to recognize in the bent figure leaning over the other, with his back turned, the peculiarly checked brown suit which identified Mr. Parsons.
Evidently neither the partner nor his companion heard Curt, so absorbed were they in some discussion or comparison of figures.
Curt, wondering why they were so engrossed in that work when the office was closed, and so absorbed that they had not heard him—he had not tried to snoop or to creep along the hall!—decided that it must be legitimate business, and that he would not disturb them.
He went on beyond to the rear stairway and down, looking for the watchman.