with false hopes in that connection; there had been
a finality in his son's last utterance that rang true.

What curse had come upon him? What malign fate had led Graham there
that evening at the very moment when he could least afford to have his
trickery revealed to his son? Why was everything going wrong?

The solace of tobacco was denied him, since he did not smoke. His
shaken nerves cried for some attention, and the faint odor of whisky
that still lingered in the room recalled him to Graham's resource. He
stepped to the door and called Bates, who came from the rear of the
house.

"Fetch me a glass, and that decanter of Bourbon."

The butler returned in a minute with a tray. He placed it on a small
table near the desk and looked inquiringly at Simon.

"Will you wish anything else, sir?"

"No. Go to bed."

"Thank you, sir. Everything is closed but the front door. Mr. Copley
is still out. Good night, sir."

Varr poured himself a stiff three fingers and tossed it off at a gulp,
making a wry face as the fiery liquor stung his unaccustomed throat.
Otherwise the effect was excellent. He decanted another large drink
and was about to take a sip of it when his eyes, above the glass,
chanced to rest on a piece of brown paper in a pigeonhole of his desk.

Abruptly, he put down his drink, drew the paper out, and read the last
lines of the message so curiously received.

"_Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the
thunderbolts of wrath!_"

Bah! He flung the paper back into its hole, yet continued to eye it
with a feeling of uneasiness that required another swallow of whisky to
allay. Ah--that was better! He took a second, and new life and
courage flowed into him with the liquor.

He threw back his head and squared his shoulders defiantly. Blast
them--blast them one and all, root and branch! Graham--Copley--this
lunatic Monk--! Threaten _him_, would they? Let 'em look out for
themselves--_he'd_ show 'em!

He raised his clenched fist preparatory to bringing it down with a
crash upon the desk. It did not fall; it stayed aloft while a sudden
fear leaped into his eyes. He bent forward, his head turned sideways,
his ears straining to catch a sound that had come to them from a
distance.

A siren was blowing--the siren whose raucous wail gave warning to the
people of Hambleton when fire threatened their homes. Tensely, Simon
counted the long blasts. One--two--three! A s