He leaned forward, pointing an index finger pistol-fashion, and Rod had an impression of hearing sentence passed on a delinquent, a sentence from which there could be no appeal. He had never thought of his father as a harsh, merciless man. He was harsh now. There was an acid bitterness in his tone.
"Listen to me," he repeated. "You have had your head for nine years. You have sunk a sizable fortune in this, and it is nothing but a gutted shell. You have not only wasted your own money, allowed these men to filch it from you, but you have taken the money of people who trusted you and put it in jeopardy. Not because you were a crook or a thief—but because you associated with crooks and thieves without recognizing them as such. You should have known what constitutes business integrity. You have disregarded the highest obligation of a public trust. So you can't remain in control here. You should never have been in control. That was my mistake—for which we must all pay—all of us, do you hear? I should have seen through you long ago. Your private life is a scandal and your public life a sham. You're morally as well as financially bankrupt. You've misled me. I've had to learn for myself about things. You can be of no service in clearing up the mess you've made. I can't trust you. I have no confidence in you. So you must step aside."
Grove's chin sank on his breast.
"You ought to give me a chance," he mumbled. "I've made mistakes. Everybody does. But nobody can handle this thing without me."
Rod marveled at the fixity of this idea.
"No," his father repeated inflexibly. "From now on you make your own chances. Charlie Hale will take full charge here. You will be at hand for a few days to give him such information as he requires. But you will have no authority. I want this attended to this afternoon. At once. See that you do it immediately."
Grove rose. He slouched through the doorway, all the sprightliness gone out of him. Rod felt a sudden twinge of pity. Grove had been broken on his own wheel. Norquay senior sat staring blankly at the table. A wistful sadness shadowed his face. It pained Rod. He was an old man and Grove was his son,—and he had been proud of him. Rod understood.
"Don't take it to heart so, pater," he tried to cheer him. "It'll come out all right."
"The limits of human folly are only exceeded by human blindness," his father answered moodily, "and sometimes it is a little difficult to adjust one's vision to a merciless flash of light."
He sat tapping his fingertips on the polished wood.