He withdrew to his den. He rearranged the coke-balls that he had had spread on the top of his grate fire, and then he began to rummage among the disordered papers on his desk.
A book was lying among them—a thin volume, with the place marked by a paper-cutter.
"I wish. Abbie wouldn't leave her things around everywhere," he said, grumblingly.
He tossed the book across to a table. The paper-cutter fell out of it, but landed by its side, where it balanced on one corner of the tabletop. It was a cumbrous implement, somewhat after the fashion of a dagger, and it was smeared over with something that produced the effect of green bronze.
He went to the window and looked out before pulling down its shade; the window opened, after the manner of a door, on the side porch. A misty rain was falling—slight, but deadly chill, and through it there appeared the discolored flank of the stable, draped with the autumnal stringiness of its wild cucumber vines.
The door of the room opened with a swift and sudden quiet, and a young man stepped in. His shoulders were covered with a thousand shimmering rain-globules, and his breath gave out a strong reek of brandy. It was Marcus.
"I want to see Mr. Brainard," he had said, at the outer door, to the strange servant-girl, and he had pushed straight by her without further word.
He stood there pale and tremulous; his eyes glittered like two knife-points.
"I'm out again," he said. "I've got another chance, and I don't mean to lose this one."
His father turned on him with a fierce frown—a frown full of malevolent intention.