In a still fashionable, but older, part of the town, the elder Balcom had his quarters. They were spacious and furnished in Oriental style, with many a suggestion of the Indian Ocean.
Balcom was evidently annoyed, and seriously so. He was striding up and down the apartment, scowling and puffing furiously at a black cigar. In his hand was a letter, and from time to time he halted and glanced at it, then fell back to his quick walking again, while a sinister light came into his eyes. Yet the contents of the note were hardly such as would have seemed likely to cause a man of honest purpose any agitation.
Mr. Herbert Balcom,
International Patents, Inc.Dear Sir,—A special meeting of the executive board of International Patents, Inc., will be called at Brent Rock this afternoon to determine the future policies of this company.
[Signed] Eva Brent.
Balcom had read the notice for the tenth time when a negro servant entered and announced that his son Paul wished to see him.
"Show him in—then," growled Balcom to the servant.
Paul entered. He was evidently somewhat chagrined and crestfallen. Nor did his father's next words tend to cheer him up.
"I suppose you'll acknowledge that you've made a miserable mess of it," accused the older man. "When will you stop mixing women with business?"
Paul was silent. Indeed there was nothing that he could say.
"And now look at this note," pursued Balcom, in growing rage. "It brings things to a head. What can we do?"
He thrust the note at Paul, who read it. Balcom himself reread it, crumpled it in anger, tore it, and threw the pieces in violence on the floor.