The door was open. Seated behind a wire railing at a desk was a cross-looking old man writing in a book. Frank approached him with the question.
"Is Mr. Pryor in?"
"Eleven," snapped out the man without looking up from his work.
"You mean he will be here at eleven o'clock? " pursued Frank.
"Yes."
"I'll wait for him then," said Frank, selecting a chair. He felt a trifle disappointed and worried. The "certain other party" was on the road to Riverton. It was part of Frank's contract to see Pryor before his arrival.
Several people came in and inquired for the insurance man during the next half-hour. Some of them went away saying they would return at eleven o'clock. Some others sat down like Frank, and waited. Frank heard the old clerk explain to one caller that Mr. Pryor was in his private room, but engaged in a most important consultation with a client.
Frank grew restless. He approached the cross-grained clerk again.
"Excuse me," he said politely, "but I understand that Mr. Pryor is in his private room."
