There was derision in the monosyllable, but a thoughtful
expression in the hard gray eyes indicated that Varr had found food for
reflection in Nelson's story. What direction his thoughts were taking
he did not choose to reveal at the moment, but shot another question at
the watchman instead. "Doesn't Maxon wear a dark-blue flannel shirt?"

"Usually, sir; he had on a gray one to-day."

"Ah!" It was a note of triumph this time. "Have you seen Steiner this
afternoon?"

"Steiner, sir? The Chief of Police?"

"The Chief of Police--certainly! Not the Sultan of Turkey!"

"No, sir, I haven't. But this is about the time he turns up every day
to see that things are quiet."

"Watch out for him. Tell him I want to speak to him. I'll be upstairs
in my office."

"Yes, sir."

They parted with no further remarks. Nelson made a cautious
preliminary survey of the outer world to satisfy himself that no more
tomatoes were to be apprehended, then opened the door, placed a chair
upon the threshold, and settled to the enjoyment of a freshly-filled
pipe while waiting for Steiner to put in an appearance. Varr strode to
the farther end of the hallway and climbed the flight of narrow,
rickety stairs which led to the upper floor.

This was normally the scene of quiet and orderly activity, where the
day's work was done to the clicking of typewriters and the hum of
subdued voices, but now the rooms were empty and the only sound to be
heard was the heavy tread of Varr himself as he walked through the main
office to the small room where his own desk was located. He frowned at
the difference, and sniffed discontentedly at the stale air which
seemed already to have taken on the peculiar flat mustiness appropriate
to closed and deserted habitations. He frowned again when he drew his
finger along a desk and noted the depth of the furrow it had made in
the dust.

A reasonable man--Simon emphatically was not--would have allocated to
himself some share of the blame while scowling at the empty chairs and
dusty furnishings of the office. It was he who was primarily
responsible. It was he who had decreed that the clerical force should
be laid off without pay for the duration of the strike.

"They'll have nothing to do--why should we pay 'em to do it?"

Jason Bolt, a minor partner in the business by virtue of some money he
had put into it at a critical period in its early development, had
protested mildly and ineffectually.

"It wa