y foolish hopes. If I did, I believe she'd tactfully
nip them in the bud."

"On the whole, I'm pleased to hear it," Featherstone replied. "Now, if
you don't mind, there's something I want to read."

II

THE MILL-OWNER

Big arc-lamps flared above the railroad track that crossed the yard of
the Hulton factory, but except for a yellow glimmer from a few upper
windows, the building rose in a huge dark oblong against the sky. The
sharp clanging of a locomotive bell jarred on the silence, for the mill
hands had gone home and the wheels that often hummed all night were
still. It seemed to Foster, who glanced at his watch as he picked his
way among the lines, that the shadow of the recent tragedy brooded over
the place.

"I don't know that I'm imaginative; but I wouldn't like the
night-watchman's job just now," he remarked to Featherstone. "Hulton's
illness can't have spoiled his nerve, or he'd have asked us to meet him
at his house, in view of what he probably wants to talk about."

"I suspect that Hulton's nerve is better than yours or mine, and
although I'm sorry for the old man. It was a surprise to me when he
broke down," Featherstone replied. "This is the first time I've been
in the mill since Fred was shot, and I'll own that I'd sooner have come
in daylight."

They went round a row of loaded cars to the timekeeper's office, where
a man told them that Hulton was waiting and they were to go right up.
A dark passage, along which their footsteps echoed, led to a flight of
stairs, and they felt there was something oppressive in the gloom, but
a small light burned near the top of the building, and when they
reached a landing Featherstone touched his partner. It was at this
spot Fred Hulton had been found lying on the floor, with a fouled
pistol of a make he was known to practice with near his hand. Foster
shivered as he noted the cleanness of the boards. It indicated careful
scrubbing, and was somehow more daunting than a sign of what had
happened there.

A short night of stairs led to the offices of the head of the firm, and
the treasurer, whose assistant Fred Hulton had been. They went on and
entered a small, plainly-furnished room, well lighted by electric
lamps, where Hulton sat at a writing-table and signed them to sit down.
His shoulders were bent, his clothes hung slackly on his powerful
frame, and Featherstone thought his hair had grown whiter since he saw
him last. He looked ill, but his f