"Thank you, sir. Everything is closed but the front door. Mr. Copley is still out. Good night, sir."
Varr poured himself a stiff three fingers and tossed it off at a gulp, making a wry face as the fiery liquor stung his unaccustomed throat. Otherwise the effect was excellent. He decanted another large drink and was about to take a sip of it when his eyes, above the glass, chanced to rest on a piece of brown paper in a pigeonhole of his desk.
Abruptly, he put down his drink, drew the paper out, and read the last lines of the message so curiously received.
"Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the thunderbolts of wrath!"
Bah! He flung the paper back into its hole, yet continued to eye it with a feeling of uneasiness that required another swallow of whisky to allay. Ah—that was better! He took a second, and new life and courage flowed into him with the liquor.
He threw back his head and squared his shoulders defiantly. Blast them—blast them one and all, root and branch! Graham—Copley—this lunatic Monk—! Threaten him, would they? Let 'em look out for themselves—he'd show 'em!
He raised his clenched fist preparatory to bringing it down with a crash upon the desk. It did not fall; it stayed aloft while a sudden fear leaped into his eyes. He bent forward, his head turned sideways, his ears straining to catch a sound that had come to them from a distance.
A siren was blowing—the siren whose raucous wail gave warning to the people of Hambleton when fire threatened their homes. Tensely, Simon counted the long blasts. One—two—three! A short pause. One—two—three!
Thirty-three! The tannery!
He sprang erect. Instinct born of habit impelled him to slam down the roll-top cover of his desk before he rushed from the room and down the hall. He snatched his soft hat from a rack as he reached with his other hand for the heavy latch of the front door.