"Come back here!" snapped Simon. "I've not finished with you!"
"Yes, you have, father," said Copley. "Just that!"
White to his lips, he turned and left the room. Varr listened to his retreating steps and to a second closing of the front door as he went out of the house into the dark night.
Alone, Varr sank into the chair before his desk and tried to take stock of his position. For once, it seemed, he had not only failed to have his own way but had definitely come out at the short end of the horn. It would be difficult to replace Graham—he could admit that to himself. It would be impossible to replace Copley—! He did not try to deceive himself with false hopes in that connection; there had been a finality in his son's last utterance that rang true.
What curse had come upon him? What malign fate had led Graham there that evening at the very moment when he could least afford to have his trickery revealed to his son? Why was everything going wrong?
The solace of tobacco was denied him, since he did not smoke. His shaken nerves cried for some attention, and the faint odor of whisky that still lingered in the room recalled him to Graham's resource. He stepped to the door and called Bates, who came from the rear of the house.
"Fetch me a glass, and that decanter of Bourbon."
The butler returned in a minute with a tray. He placed it on a small table near the desk and looked inquiringly at Simon.
"Will you wish anything else, sir?"
"No. Go to bed."