Wingate turned the handle, entered and closed the
door behind him. The man who was the solitary occupant of the room half
rose from behind his desk.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
Wingate was in no hurry to reply. He took rapid stock of his surroundings
and of the man who had confronted him. The room was small, none too clean
and badly furnished. It reeked with the smell of tobacco, and
notwithstanding the warmth of the June day, all the windows were tightly
closed. Its occupant, a lank man with a smooth but wizened face, straight
white hair and dark, piercing eyes, was in accord with his
surroundings,--shabby, unkempt, with cigarette ash down the front of his
coat, his collar none too clean, his tie awry.
"Hm!" Wingate remarked, "Seems to me you're not taking care of yourself,
Andrew. Do you mind if I open a window or two?"
"My God, it's Wingate!" the tenant of the room exclaimed. "John Wingate!"
Wingate, who had succeeded in opening the windows, came over and shook
hands with the man whom he had come to visit.
"How are you, Andrew?" he said. "What on earth's got you that you choose
to live in an atmosphere like this!"
Slate, who had recovered from his surprise, slipped dejectedly back into
his place. Wingate had established himself with caution upon the only
remaining chair.
"I've had lung trouble over here," Slate explained, "This heavy
atmosphere plays the devil with one's breathing.
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