She freed her hands.
"So we couldn't even have one happy evening!" she said. "I won't quarrel
with you, Clay. And I won't be tragic over Graham. If you'll just be
human to him, he'll come out all right."
She went into her bedroom, the heavy lace of her negligee trailing
behind her, and closed the door.
Clayton had a visitor the next morning at the mill, a man named Dunbar,
who marked on his visitors' slip, under the heading of his business with
the head of the concern, the words, "Private and confidential."
Clayton, looking up, saw a small man, in a suit too large for him,
and with ears that projected wide on either side of a shrewd, rather
humorous face.
"Mr. Spencer?"
"Yes. Sit down, please."
Even through the closed window the noise of the mill penetrated. The
yard-engine whistled shrilly. The clatter of motor-trucks, the far away
roar of the furnaces, the immediate vicinity of many typewriters, made a
very bedlam of sound. Mr. Dunbar drew his chair closer, and laid a card
on the desk.
"My credentials," he explained.
Clayton read the card.
"Very well, Mr. Dunbar. What can I do for you?"
Dunbar fixed him with shrewd, light eyes, and bent forward.
"Have you had any trouble in your mill, Mr. Spencer?"
"None whatever."
"Are you taking any measures to prevent trouble?"
"I had expected to. Not that I fear anything, but of course no one can
tell. We have barely commenced to get lined up for our new work."
"May I ask the nature of the precautions?"
Clayton told him, with an uneasy feeling that Mr. Dunbar was finding
them childish and inefficient.
"Exactly," said his visitor. "And well enough as far as they go. They
don't go far enough. The trouble with you manufacturers is that you only
recognize one sort of trouble, and that's a strike. I suppose you know
that the Kaiser has said, if we enter the war, that he need not send an
army here at all. That his army is here already, armed and equipped."
"Bravado," said Clayton.
"I wonder!"
Mr. Dunbar reached into his breast pocket, and produced a long typed
memorandum.
"You might just glance at that."
Clayton read it carefully. It was a list of fires, mostly in granaries
and warehouses, and the total loss was appalling.
"All German work," said his visitor. "Arson, for the Fatherland. All
supplies for the Allies, you see. I've got other similar lists, here,
all German deviltry. And they're only commencing. If we go into the
war--"