So saying he reached behind him, slammed the door shut, shook it, and turned the key in the lock. The key he dropped into a trouser's pocket.
"What are you waiting for?" he demanded, still in that hoarse whisper.
The district attorney found his tongue—and stood his ground. "Where's Guerilla?"
"I don't know. He left when you decided to let him in. You see, I thought you'd be more likely to open up if it was some one you knew, so I got Guerilla to do the honors. Just a li'l trick, Arthur, just a li'l trick. You're such a shy bird. No hard feelings, I hope. No? Yes? Well?"
"Whonell are you?"
"Me? Oh, I'm the Fool-Killer. Let us walk into your office says the fly to the spider, you being the spider, of course. And if the fly has to say it again, the spider will have something to think about besides the pitfalls of this wicked world. Thank you. I thought you would. And bear in mind that any wild snatches toward table drawers and so forth will be treated as hostile acts."
The district attorney continued to lead the way into the office. He started to sit down in his accustomed chair behind the table.
"Not there—there," said the brown-bearded man, indicating a chair on the other side of the table. "I'd rather sit on the drawer side myself. Not that I expect you to gamble with me, Arthur. But in my business we can't afford to take chances. Are you ready. Gentlemen, be seated."
He uttered the last three words in his natural voice. The district attorney failed to suppress a bleak smile.
"There's my old Arthur," approved Billy Wingo. "I knew he'd be glad to see me, give him time."