On inquiring of the same waiter whom Harley had accosted whether
my friend was there:
"I think a gentleman is upstairs with Mr. Meyer," said the man.
"In his office?"
"Yes, sir."
Thereupon I mounted the stairs and before a half-open door
paused. Harley's voice was audible within, and therefore I
knocked and entered.
I discovered Harley standing by an American desk. Beside him in
a revolving chair which, with the desk, constituted the principal
furniture of a tiny office, sat a man in a dress-suit which had
palpably not been made for him. He had a sullen and suspiciously
Teutonic cast of countenance, and he was engaged in a voluble but
hardly intelligible speech as I entered.
"Ha, Knox!" said Harley, glancing over his shoulder, "did you
manage?"
"Yes," I replied.
Harley nodded shortly and turned again to the man in the chair.
"I am sorry to give you so much trouble, Mr. Meyer," he said,
"but I should like my friend here to see the room above."
At this moment my attention was attracted by a singular object
which lay upon the desk amongst a litter of bills and accounts.
This was a piece of rusty iron bar somewhat less than three feet
in length, and which once had been painted green.
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