been ended. He knew all that story now. Then, if there had been
no affair, Herman would not have blown up the munition works and a good
many lives, valuable to themselves at least, might have been saved.

"Curious!" he reflected. "One woman! And she probably sleeps well at
nights and goes to church on Sundays!"

Clayton passed back his papers, and ran a hand over his heavy hair.

"They seem to be all right," he said.

Dunbar rose.

"Hope the next news will be better, Mr. Spencer."

"I hope so."

"I haven't told you, I think, that we have traced Rudolph Klein."

Clayton's face set.

"He's got away, unfortunately. Over the border into Mexico. They have
a regular system there, the Germans--an underground railway to Mexico
City. They have a paymaster on our side of the line. They even bank
in one of our banks! Oh, we'll get them yet, of course, but they're
damnably clever."

"I suppose there is no hope of getting Rudolph Klein?"

"Not while the Germans are running Mexico," Captain Dunbar replied,
dryly. "He's living in a Mexican town just over the border. We're
watching him. If he puts a foot on this side we'll grab him."

Clayton sat back after he had gone. He was in his old office at the
mill, where Joey had once formed his unofficial partnership with the
firm. Outside in the mill yard there was greater activity than ever,
but many of the faces were new. The engineer who had once run the yard
engine was building bridges in France. Hutchinson had heard the call,
and was learning to fly in Florida, The service flag over his office
door showed hundreds of stars, and more were being added constantly.
Joey dead. Graham wounded, his family life on the verge of disruption,
and Audrey--

Then, out of the chaos there came an exaltation. He had given himself,
his son, the wealth he had hoped to have, but, thank God, he had had
something to give. There were men who could give nothing, like old Terry
Mackenzie, knocking billiard-balls around at the club, and profanely
wistful that he had had no son to go. His mind ranged over those
pathetic, prosperous, sonless men who filed into the club late in the
afternoons, and over the last editions and whisky-and-sodas fought their
futile warfare, their battle-ground a newspaper map, their upraised
voices their only weapons.

On parade days, when the long lines of boys in khaki went by, they were
silent, heavy, inutile. They were too old to fight. The biggest thing in
their l