"Good luck to you!" he said. "And you'd better get a better face on you

than that. It's enough to send you up, on suspicion!"

She hardly heard him. She began to run, and again she said over and over

her little inarticulate prayer. She knew the Spencer house. More

than once she had walked past it, on Sunday afternoons, for the

sheer pleasure of seeing Graham's home. Well, all that was over now.

Everything was over, unless-The Spencer house was dark, save for a low light in the hall. A new

terror seized her. Suppose Graham saw her. He might not believe her

story. He might think it a ruse to see his father. But, as it happened,

Clayton had sent the butler to bed, and himself answered the bell from

the library.

He recognized her at once, and because he saw the distress on her face

he brought her in at once. In the brief moment that it required to turn

on the lights he had jumped to a sickening conviction that Graham was

at the bottom of her visit, and her appearance in full light confirmed

this.

"Come into the library," he said. "We can talk in there." He led the

way and drew up a chair for her. But she did not sit down. She steadied

herself by its back, instead.

"You think it's about Graham," she began. "It isn't, not directly, that

is. And my coming is terrible, because it's my own father. They're going

to blow up the munition plant, Mr. Spencer!"

"When?"

"To-night, I think. I came as fast as I could. I was locked in.

"Locked in?" He was studying her face.

"Yes. Don't bother about that now. I'm not crazy or hysterical. I tell

you I heard them. I've been a prisoner or I'd have come sooner. To-day

they brought something--dynamite or a bomb--in a suit-case--and it's

gone to-night. He took it--my father."

He was already at the telephone as she spoke. He called the mill first,

and got the night superintendent. Then he called a number Anna supposed

was the police station, and at the same time he was ringing the

garage-signal steadily for his car. By the time he had explained the

situation to the police, his car was rolling under the porte-cochere

beside the house. He was starting out, forgetful of the girl, when she

caught him by the arm.

"You mustn't go!" she cried. "You'll be killed, too. It will all go,

all of it. You can't be spared, Mr. Spencer. You can build another mill,

but--"




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