“Yes’m,” he said shortly, and a moment later: “This is Baggs’s office, ma’am,” indicating the doorway just ahead of them. Len had not met Baggs since his return, but as they came up to the doorway, Baggs stepped out.
Amos Alexander Baggs was not a prepossessing person, except for height, which was well over six feet, exaggerated by thinness. His nearly bald head showed some gray hair, weak eyes, a thin nose, rather short for a long face, and a determined mouth and chin. He wore a white collar and a flowing black tie above what was once a fancy vest, the rest of his raiment being rusty black, badly wrinkled.
He jerked slightly at such close contact to the man he had sent to the penitentiary, and blinked his watery eyes at Nan.
“This is Mr. Baggs,” said Len slowly.
“Thank you so much for directing me and carrying my bag.”
“Thasall right, ma’am.”
Len gave Baggs a hard glance, nodded to Nan, and went across the street. Baggs looked after him for a moment and then turned to Nan.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“About a letter you sent me,” said Nan. “I—I am Madge Singer.”
Baggs’s eyes opened a trifle as he looked her over.