There was his nephew, Stephen Hampton, greying at the temples but
youthfully dressed in sports-clothes, leaning with obvious if slightly
premature proprietorship against the fireplace, a whiskey-and-soda in
his hand. There was Myra, Stephen's smart, sophisticated-looking blonde
wife, reclining in a chair beside the desk. For these two, he felt an
implacable hatred. The others were no less enemies, perhaps more
dangerous enemies, but they were only the tools of Stephen and Myra. For
instance, T. Barnwell Powell, prim and self-satisfied, sitting on the
edge of his chair and clutching the briefcase on his lap as though it
were a restless pet which might attempt to escape. He was an honest man,
as lawyers went; painfully ethical. No doubt he had convinced himself
that his clients were acting from the noblest and most disinterested
motives. And Doctor Alexis Vehrner, with his Vandyke beard and his
Viennese accent as phony as a Soviet-controlled election, who had
preempted the chair at Colonel Hampton's desk. That rankled the old
soldier, but Doctor Vehrner would want to assume the position which
would give him appearance of commanding the situation, and he probably
felt that Colonel Hampton was no longer the master of "Greyrock.
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