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 face was hard and resolute, and when
he let his eyes rest on the young men his mouth was firmly set.
Hulton's business acumen and tenacity were known, and it was supposed
that the latter quality had helped him much in the earlier part of his
career. The other man, who sat close by, was the treasurer, Percival.

"To begin with, I want to thank you for the way you gave your
evidence," Hulton said to Featherstone, who had been one of the last to
see Fred Hulton alive.

"I don't know that thanks are needed," Featherstone replied. "I had
promised to tell the truth."

"Just so. The truth, however, strikes different people differently,
and you gave the matter the most favorable look you could. We'll let
it go at that. I suppose you're still convinced my son was in his