One morning into the inner sanctum of this dignitary stepped a man
built in rectangles, a square face, square, ponderous shoulders, and
even square-tipped fingers. Into the smiling haze of Hardy's face his
own keen black eye sparkled like an electric lantern flashed into a
dark room. He was dressed in the cowboy's costume, but there was no
Western languor in his make-up. Everything about him was clear cut
and precise. He had a habit of clicking his teeth as he finished a
sentence. In a word, when he appeared in the doorway Lee Hardy woke
up, and before the stranger had spoken a dozen words the agent was
leaning forward to be sure that he would not miss a syllable.
"You're Lee Hardy, aren't you?" said he, and his eyes gave the
impression of a smile, though his lips did not stir after speaking.
"I am," said the agent.
"Then you're the man I want to see. If you don't mind--"
He closed the door, pulled a chair against it, and then sat down, and
folded his arms. Very obviously he meant business. Hardy switched his
position in his chair, sitting a little more to the right, so that the
edge of the seat would not obstruct the movement of his hand towards
the holster on his right thigh.
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