"Papa says to come right in, sir," the boy reported.

Dan caught a glimpse of a girl at the piano in the parlor who turned to
glance at him and continued her playing. The lad indicated an open door
midway of the long hall and waited for Harwood to enter. A lady,
carrying a small workbasket in her hand, bade the reporter good-evening
as she passed out. On a table in the middle of the room a checkerboard's
white and black belligerents stood at truce, and from the interrupted
game rose a thick-set man of medium height, with dark hair and a
close-trimmed mustache, who came toward him inquiringly.

"Good-evening. I am Mr. Bassett. Have a chair."

Harwood felt the guilt of his intrusion upon a scene so sheltered and
domestic. The father had evidently been playing checkers with his son;
the mother's chair still rocked by another table on which stood a
reading lamp.

Harwood stated his errand, and Bassett merely nodded, offering none of
those protestations of surprise and humility, those pleas of
unworthiness that his predecessors on Dan's list had usually insisted
upon. Dan made mental note at once of the figure before him. Bassett's
jaw was square and firm--power was manifest there, unmistakably, and
his bristling mustache suggested combativeness. His dark eyes met
Harwood's gaze steadily--hardness might be there, though their gaze was
friendly enough. His voice was deep and its tone was pleasant. He opened
a drawer and produced a box of cigars.

"Won't you smoke? I don't smoke myself, but you mustn't mind that." And