Having turned Dunbar and his protective league over to Hutchinson, the
general manager, Clayton had put him out of his mind. But during the
week after Christmas he reached the office early one morning to find
that keen and rather shabby gentleman already there, waiting.
Not precisely waiting, for he was standing by one of the windows, well
back from it, and inspecting the mill yard with sharp, darting glances.
“Hello, Dunbar,” said Clayton, and proceeded to shed his fur-lined
coat. Dunbar turned and surveyed him with the grudging admiration of the
undersized man for the tall one.
“Cold morning,” he said, coming forward. “Not that I suppose you know
it.” He glanced at the coat.
“I thought Hutchinson said that you'd gone away.”
“Been to Washington. I brought something back that will interest you.”
From inside his coat he produced a small leather case, and took from it
a number of photographs.
“I rather gathered, Mr. Spencer,” he said dryly, “when I was here last
that you thought me an alarmist. I don't know that I blame you. We
always think the other fellow may get it, but that we are safe. You
might glance at those photographs.”
He spread them out on the desk. Beyond the windows the mill roared
on; men shouted, the locomotive whistled, a long file of laborers
with wheelbarrows went by. And from a new building going up came the
hammering of the riveting-machines, so like the rapid explosions of
machine guns.
“Interesting, aren't they?” queried Dunbar. “This is a clock-bomb with
a strap for carrying it under a coat. That's a lump of coal--only it
isn't. It's got enough explosive inside to blow up a battleship.
It's meant for that, primarily. That's fire-confetti--damnable
stuff--understand it's what burned up most of Belgium. And that's a
fountain-pen. What do you think of that? Use one yourself, don't you?
Don't leave it lying around. That's all.”
“What on earth can they do with a fountain-pen?”
“One of their best little tricks,” said Mr. Dunbar, with a note of
grudging admiration in his voice. “Here's a cut of the mechanism. You
sit down, dip your pen, and commence to write. There's the striking pin,
or whatever they call it. It hits here, and--good night!”
“Do you mean to say they're using things like that here?”
“I mean to say they're planning to, if they haven't already. That coal
now, you'd see that go into your furnaces, or under your boilers, or
wherever you use it, and wouldn't worry, would you?”
“Are these actual photographs?”
“Made from articles taken from a German officer's trunk, in a neutral
country. He was on his way somewhere, I imagine.”
Clayton sat silent. Then he took out his fountain-pen and surveyed it
with a smile.
“Rather off fountain-pens for a time, I take it!” observed Dunbar.
“Well, I've something else for you. You've got one of the best little
I.W.W. workers in the country right here in your mill. Some of them
aren't so bad--hot air and nothing else. But this fellow's a fanatic.
Which is the same as saying he's crazy.”
“Who is he?”
“Name's Rudolph Klein. He's a sort of relation to the chap that got out.
Old man's been sore on him, but I understand he's hanging around the
Klein place again.”
Clayton considered.
“I don't remember him. Of course, I can't keep track of the men. We'll
get rid of him.”
Mr. Dunbar eyed him.
“That's the best thing you can think of?”
“I don't want him round, do I?”
“Nine of you men out of ten say that. You'd turn him loose and so warn
him. Not only that, but he'll be off on his devil's work somewhere.
Perhaps here. Perhaps elsewhere. And we want him where we can find him.
See here, Mr. Spencer, d'you ever hear of counter-espionage?”
Clayton never had, but the term explained itself.
“Set a spy to watch a spy,” said Dunbar. “Let him think he's going on
fine. Find his confederates. Let them get ready to spring something. And
then--get them. Remember,” he added with sarcasm, “we're still neutral.
You can't lock a man up because he goes around yelling 'Down with
capital!' The whole country is ready to yell it with him. And, even if
you find him with a bomb under his coat, labeled 'made in Germany,' it's
hard to link Germans up with the thing. He can say that he always buys
his bombs in Germany. That they make the best bombs in the world. That
he likes the way they pack 'em, and their polite trade methods.”
Clayton listened, thinking hard.
“We have a daughter of Klein's here. She is my son's secretary.”
Dunbar glanced at him quickly, but his eyes were on the window.
“I know that.”
“Think I should get rid of her?”
Dunbar hesitated. He liked Clayton Spencer, and it was his business just
then to know something about the Kleins. It would be a good thing for
Clayton Spencer's boy if they got rid of the girl.
On the other hand, to keep her there and watch her was certainly a
bigger thing. If she stayed there might be trouble, but it would concern
the boy only. If she left, and if she was one link in the chain to
snare Rudolph, there might be a disaster costing many lives. He made his
decision quickly.
“Keep her, by all means,” he said. “And don't tell Mr. Graham anything.
He's young, and he'd be likely to show something. I suppose she gets
considerable data where she is?”
“Only of the one department. But that's a fair indication of the rest.”
Dunbar rose.
“I'm inclined to think there's nothing to that end of it,” he said. “The
old chap is sulky, but he's not dangerous. It's Rudolph I'm afraid of.”
At the luncheon hour that day Clayton, having finished his mail, went to
Graham's office. He seldom did that, but he was uneasy. He wanted to see
the girl. He wanted to look her over with this new idea in his mind.
She had been a quiet little thing, he remembered; thorough, but not
brilliant. He had sent her to Graham from his own office. He disliked
even the idea of suspecting her; his natural chivalry revolted from
suspecting any woman.
Joey, who customarily ate his luncheon on Clayton's desk in his absence,
followed by one of Clayton's cigarets, watched him across the yard, and
whistled as he saw him enter Graham's small building.
“Well, what do you think of that?” he reflected. “I hope he coughs
before he goes in.”
But Clayton did not happen to cough. Graham's office was empty, but
there was a sound of voices from Anna Klein's small room beyond. He
crossed to the door and opened it, to stand astonished, his hand on the
door-knob.
Anna Klein was seated at her desk, with her luncheon spread before her
on a newspaper, and seated on the desk, a sandwich in one hand, the
other resting on Anna's shoulder, was Graham. He was laughing when
Clayton opened the door, but the smile froze on his face. He slid off
her desk.
“Want me, father?”
“Yes,” said Clayton, curtly. And went out, leaving the door open. A sort
of stricken silence followed his exit, then Graham put down the sandwich
and went out, closing the door behind him. He stood just inside it in
the outer room, rather pale, but looking his father in the eyes.
“Sorry, father,” he said. “I didn't hear you. I--”
“What has that to do with it?”
The boy was silent. To Clayton he looked furtive, guilty. His very
expression condemned him far more than the incident itself. And Clayton,
along with his anger, was puzzled as to his best course. Dunbar had
said to leave the girl where she was. But--was it feasible under these
circumstances? He was rather irritated than angry. He considered a
flirtation with one's stenographer rotten bad taste, at any time. The
business world, to his mind, was divided into two kinds of men, those
who did that sort of thing, and those who did not. It was a code, rather
than a creed, that the boy had violated.
Besides, he had bad a surprise. The girl who sat laughing into Graham's
face was not the Anna Klein he remembered, a shy, drab little thing,
badly dressed, rather sallow and unsmiling. Here was a young woman
undeniably attractive; slightly rouged, trim in her white blouse, and
with an air of piquancy that was added, had he known it, by the large
imitation pearl earrings she wore.
“Get your hat and go to lunch, Graham,” he said. “And you might try to
remember that a slightly different standard of conduct is expected from
my son, here, than may be the standard of some of the other men.”
“It doesn't mean anything, that sort of fooling.”
“You and I may know that. The girl may not.”
Then he went out, and Graham returned unhappily to the inner room.
Anna was not crying; she was too frightened to cry. She had sat without
moving, her hand still clutching her untouched sandwich. Graham looked
at her and tried to smile.
“I'm gone, I suppose?”
“Don't you worry about that,” he said, with boyish bravado. “Don't you
worry about that, little girl.”
“Father will kill me,” she whispered. “He's queer these days, and if I
go home and have to tell him--” She shuddered.
“I'll see you get something else, if the worst comes, you know.”
She glanced up at him with that look of dog-like fidelity that always
touched him.
“I'll find you something good,” he promised.
“Something good,” she repeated, with sudden bitterness. “And you'll get
another girl here, and flirt with her, and make her crazy about you,
and--”
“Honestly, do you like me like that?”
“I'm just mad about you,” she said miserably.
Frightened though he was, her wretchedness appealed to him. The thought
that she cared for him, too, was a salve to his outraged pride. A
moment ago, in the other room, he had felt like a bad small boy. As
with Marion, Anna made him feel every inch a man. But she gave him what
Marion did not, the feeling of her complete surrender. Marion would
take; this girl would give.
He bent down and put his arms around her.
“Poor little girl!” he said. “Poor little girl!”