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