at the typewriter raised his sweating leonine head, and regarded Mr. Talliaferro fretfully. “Well?”
“Pardon me, I’m looking for Fairchild.”
“Next floor,” the other snapped, poising his hands. “Good night.”
“But he doesn’t answer. Do you happen to know if he is in to-night?”
“I do not.”
Mr. Talliaferro pondered again, diffidently. “I wonder how I might ascertain? I’m pressed for time—”
“How in hell do I know? Go up and see, or stand out there and call him.”
“Thanks, I’ll go up, if you’ve no objection.”
“Well, go up, then,” the big man answered, leaping again upon his typewriter. Mr. Talliaferro watched him for a time.
“May I go through this way?” he ventured at last, mildly and politely.
“Yes, yes. Go anywhere. But for God’s sake, don’t bother me any longer.”
Mr. Talliaferro murmured Thanks and sidled past the large frenzied man. The whole small room trembled to the man’s heavy hands and the typewriter leaped and chattered like a mad thing.
He went on and into a dark corridor filled with a thin vicious humming, and mounted lightless stairs into an acrid region scented with pennyroyal. Fairchild heard him stumble in the darkness, and groaned. I’ll have your blood for this! he swore at the thundering oblivious typewriter beneath him. After a time his door opened and the caller hissed Fairchild! into the room. Fairchild swore again under his breath. The couch complained to his movement, and he said:
“Wait there until I turn up the light. You'll break everything I’ve got, blundering around in the dark.”
