"Ah, good morning," was the bland little man's greeting. "Up with the
lark, I see. It is almost a nocturnal habit with me. I get up so early
that you might say it's a nightly proceeding. I'm surprised to see you
circulating at seven o'clock, however. Mind if I sit down here and
have my eggs?" He pulled out a chair opposite Barnes and coolly sat
down at the table.
"You can't sell me a set of Dickens at this hour of the day," said
Barnes sourly. "Besides, I've finished my breakfast. Keep your seat."
He started to rise.
"Sit down," said Sprouse quietly. Something in the man's voice and
manner struck Barnes as oddly compelling. He hesitated a second and
then resumed his seat. "I've been investigating you, Mr. Barnes," said
the little man, unsmilingly. "Don't get sore. It may gratify you to
know that I am satisfied you are all right."
"What do you mean, Mr.--Mr.--?" began Barnes, angrily.
"Sprouse. There are a lot of things that you don't know, and one of
them is that I don't sell books for a living. It's something of a side
line with me." He leaned forward. "I shall be quite frank with you,
sir. I am a secret service man. Yesterday I went through your effects
upstairs, and last night I took the liberty of spying upon you, so to
speak, while you were a guest at Green Fancy.
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