As it was, Duane felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint of his identity.
He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house.
"Come in and have a chair," said MacNelly, motioning for the one other occupant of the room to rise.

"Leave us, Russell, and close the door.
I'll be through these reports right off." MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers.

Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness.

He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes.

Without looking up he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.
"Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years," he began.
Duane smiled a little--a smile that felt strange on his face.