He reflected, however, that an early peace would not be an unmixed
blessing for him. He wanted the war to end: he hated killing. He
felt inarticulately that something horrible was happening to the
world. But personally his plans were premised on a war to last at
least two years more, until the fall of 1918. That would let him
out, cover the cost of the new plant, bring renewals of his foreign
contracts, justify those stupendous figures on the paper in his hand.

He wondered, rather uncomfortably, what he would do, under the
circumstances, if it were in his power to declare peace to-morrow.

In his office in the mill administration building, he found the
general manager waiting. Through the door into the conference room
beyond he could see the superintendents of the various departments,
with Graham rather aloof and detached, and a sprinkling of the most
important foremen. On his desk, neatly machined, was the first
tentative shell-case made in the mill machine-shop, an experiment
rather than a realization.

Hutchinson, the general manager, was not alone. Opposite him, very
neatly dressed in his best clothes, his hat in his hand and a set
expression on his face, was one of the boss rollers of the steel
mill, Herman Klein. At Clayton's entrance he made a motion to
depart, but Hutchinson stopped him.

"Tell Mr. Spencer what you've been telling me, Klein," he said
curtly.

Klein fingered his hat, but his face remained set.