They were a few minutes early, but they were not first. Grove sat at one end of a huge oval table, a massive creation of mahogany surrounded by a dozen equally massive chairs. He was flanked by his father-in-law and Arthur Deane.
The capacity for imagining a man in relation to his circumstances and surroundings was one which neither war, wounds, nor the passage of time had atrophied in Rod. This had given him a mental picture of his brother as a haggard man facing ruin with some degree of trepidation. He saw at once that this was a misconception. He perceived the well-remembered features. A cigar outthrust from one corner of Grove's mouth. There were faint, pouchy discolorations under his eyes. He was older, and he showed his age. Otherwise he had changed less than Rod expected. He had simply become a thicker-bodied edition of his earlier self. Rod marked the familiar malicious flicker in his eyes upon recognition, and wondered with an inner sardonic amusement how Grove would take this invasion of his holy of holies by a younger brother whose parting act had been to inflict the severest bodily punishment Grove had ever suffered in his life.
But Grove merely nodded with a casual "how d'do, pater," and a careless "Hello, Rod," and motioned them to chairs. Thereafter he sat quiescent. Only the too-frequent puffing at his cigar, an occasional aimless movement of the hand resting on the table, heralded a strain. Beside him John Wall sat with hands clasped over his rotund paunch, impassive as a Chinaman. Deane pencilled interminable figures on a pad.
At intervals other men came in. A hushed atmosphere seemed the most outstanding quality of the high-ceilinged, beautifully paneled room. Voices sank to discreet murmurings there.
A moon-faced clock against the north wall struck a soft, silvery chime. Grove straightened up.
"Meeting'll come to order," he slurred the words. "This, as you know, is a special meeting called to consider a difficult position. I have a report and some figures for which I desire your attention."
He paused a moment to glance about the ring of faces,—faces with bushy eyebrows and heavy jowls and many lines about the eyes, faces ruddy, saturnine, bearded, mustached. Hard and watchful faces converted by long practice into serviceable masks to hide feeling. Save Rod and his brother, not one was under fifty. Wary old birds, Rod thought, hard—hard as nails.
They represented collectively a sum in excess of ten millions.
Grove looked finally at Rod, then at his father. The tip of his tongue flicked across his full lips.
"This is a directors' meeting," he said. "It is slightly irregular for outsiders to be present. I—"