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The chairs were massive and comfortable. No attempt had been made to follow any particular scheme of decoration, and the room radiated a masculinity which was untempered by feminine taste.
    A door to an inner room swung open, and a big man stood on the threshold.
    Perry Mason had a chance to look past this man, into the room from which he had emerged. It was a room fitted up as a study with book cases lining the walls, a massive desk and swivel chair in one corner, and, beyond that, a glimpse of a tiled bathroom.
    The man stepped into the room and pulled the door closed behind him.
    He was a huge bulk of a man with a face that was fat and pasty. There were puffs under his eyes. His chest was deep and his shoulders very broad. His hips were narrow, and Mason had the impression that the legs were probably thin. It was the eyes that commanded attention. They were hard as diamonds and utterly cold.
    For a second or two the man stood near the door, staring at Mason. Then he walked forward, and his gait strengthened the impression that his legs were taxed to capacity to carry about the great weight of his torso.
    Mason surmised that the man was somewhere in the late forties, and there was that in his manner which indicated he was completely cruel and ruthless in his dealings.
    Standing, Mason was a good four inches shorter than this man, although his shoulders were as broad.
    "Mr. Belter?" he asked.
    The man nodded, planted his feet wide apart, and stared at Mason.
    "What do you want?" he snapped.
    Mason said, "I'm sorry to come to your house, but I wanted to talk over a matter of business."
    "What about?"
    "About a certain story that Spicy Bits threatens to publish. I don't want it published."
    The diamond-hard eyes never so much as changed expression. They stared fixedly at Perry Mason.
    "Why come here about it?" asked Belter.
    "Because I think you're the one that I want to see."
    "Well, I'm not."
    "I think you are."
    "I'm not. Don't know anything at all about Spicy Bits. I've read the sheet once in a while. It's a dirty, blackmailing rag, if you ask me."
    Mason's eyes became hard. His body seemed to lean forward slightly from the hips.
    "All right," he said. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."
    "Telling me what?" Belter asked.
    "Telling you that I'm an attorney, and I'm representing a client that Spicy Bits is trying to blackmail, and I don't like the set-up. I'm telling you that I don't intend to pay the price that's demanded, and I'm telling you further that I don't intend to pay a damned cent. I'm not going to buy any advertising in your sheet, and your sheet isn't going to publish the story about my client. Get that, and get it straight!"
    Belter sneered. "It serves me right," he said, "for seeing the first shyster ambulance chaser that comes pounding at the door. I should have had the butler kick you out. You're either drunk or crazy. Or both. Personally, I have an idea it's both. Now are you going to get out, or shall I call the police?"
    "I'll get out," Mason said, "when I finish what I was saying. You've kept in the background in this thing, and had Locke for your goat to stand out in front and take it. You've sat back and raked in the cash. You've received dividends out of blackmail. All right. Here's where you get an assessment."
    Belter stood staring at Mason, saying nothing.
    "I don't know whether you know who I am, or whether you know what I want," Mason went on, "but you can find out pretty quick by getting in touch with Locke. I'm telling you that if Spicy Bits publishes anything about my client, I'll rip off the mask of the man who owns the damned rag! Do you get that?"
    "All right," Belter remarked. "You've made your threat. Now I'll make mine. I don't know who you are, and I don't give a damn. Maybe your reputation is sufficiently spotless so that you can afford to go around and make threats. Then again, maybe it isn't. Perhaps you'd better watch some of your own fences before you start throwing mud over