Fairchild hurried uptown, found the old building to which he had been directed by the telegram, and made the upward trip in the ancient elevator, at last to knock upon a door.

A half-whining voice answered him, and he went within.
A greasy man was there, greasy in his fat, uninviting features, in his seemingly well-oiled hands as they circled in constant kneading, in his long, straggling hair, in his old, spotted Prince Albert--and in his manners.

Fairchild turned to peer at the glass panel of the door.

It bore the name he sought.

Then he looked again at the oily being who awaited him.
"Mr.Barnham ?" "That's what I 'm called." He wheezed with the self-implied humor of his remark and motioned toward a chair.