"I know more than that," Dr. Leopold Moriss said, crisp sureness in his tones.
"What do you mean?" I asked woodenly.
"Let's just say for the present, January," he said, "that I know why you refused to account for those funds."
"Let's just say goodbye," I said, staggering to my feet. I started for the door.
"Sit down, you drunken bum," he said.
"Why you—" I snarled, turning toward him sober with rage, my fingers constricting.
He sat there, grinning at me, undisturbed by my threatening posture. As if to flaunt his unconcern in my face he took out a long cigar and lit it nonchalantly.
I stared into his lifeless eyes through the screen of freshly generated blue smoke and sat down slowly.
He looked back at me, his face expressionless behind the cigar. My rage subsided gradually.
"That's better," he said finally. From that moment I hated him.