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“No one here,” Warwick remarked uneasily.

Ken, however, crossed the room to an inner doorway which opened into another office.

“I beg your pardon,” he said apologetically. “Good morning.”

The words were addressed to a man, who sat half-hidden behind a battered, roll-top desk. He wore no coat or necktie and had not shaved that day.

Seeing Ken in the doorway, the agent’s feet came down from the desk where they had been resting. His mouth dropped open to expose unclean, broken teeth.

“Good morning,” Ken repeated pleasantly. “Are you the agent for the Bolton Mining Company?”

“That’s me,” the man growled. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Unprepared for such an indifferent reception, Ken stepped aside so that Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts could enter. The company agent regarded them with obvious annoyance.

“Well, what d’you want?” he demanded again as no one spoke.

“My name is George Livingston,” the Scout leader introduced himself. “You probably know why I am here.”

“Never heard of you.”