"That's very true, Simon." To this particular type of jeer Bolt had grown accustomed, and if his eyes narrowed a trifle it was the only hint of resentment that he showed. "As a matter of fact, it's just because you've got such a good thing in this new formula that I'm anxious for more elbow room." He glanced about him with an air of dissatisfaction. "The business we're doing warrants something better than this peanut stand!"
"I'm ready to buy your interest for ten times what you put in!" offered his partner dryly. "Will you accept?"
"I will not." Jason stood up and clapped on his hat. "I must be off. Sure you won't let me drive you home?" A shake of Varr's head answered him. "Good night, then."
He left the office and was halfway to the stairs when a sudden thought occurred to him and he retraced his steps.
"Say, Simon!"
"Well?"
"Where are you going to put that book?"
"This notebook? In my library desk at home, I suppose. Why in thunder do you want to know?"
"Well, you might drop dead during the night! Think how awkward it would be for me if your memoranda were missing, too!"
He grinned cheerfully and departed, satisfied that he had scored mildly in retaliation for some of the slights inflicted on him by Varr. He had once discovered that Simon Varr, for all his outward strength and ruthless nature, had an innate fear of death. This hitherto secret weakness had revealed itself some years before when double pneumonia had brought him dangerously close to the end of his mortal coil.