Spearman made no reply but again hung up the receiver. Alan sat waiting, his watch upon the desk before him—tense, expectant, with flushes of hot and cold passing over him. Ten minutes passed; then twenty. The telephone under Corvet's desk buzzed.
"Mr. Spearman says he will give you five minutes now," the switchboard girl said.
Alan breathed deep with relief; Spearman had wanted to refuse to see him—but he had not refused; he had sent for him within the time Alan had appointed and after waiting until just before it expired.
Alan put his watch back into his pocket and, crossing to the other office, found Spearman alone. There was no pretense of courtesy now in Spearman's manner; he sat motionless at his desk, his bold eyes fixed on Alan intently. Alan closed the door behind him and advanced toward the desk.
"I thought we'd better have some explanation," he said, "about our meeting last night."
"Our meeting?" Spearman repeated; his eyes had narrowed watchfully.
"You told Mr. Sherrill that you were in Duluth and that you arrived home in Chicago only this morning. Of course you don't mean to stick to that story with me?"
"What are you talking about?" Spearman demanded.
"Of course, I know exactly where you were a part of last evening; and you know that I know. I only want to know what explanation you have to offer."
Spearman leaned forward. "Talk sense and talk it quick, if you have anything to say to me!"
"I haven't told Mr. Sherrill that I found you at
