Clayton nodded, and
together they went inside. Even this house was partially destroyed.
A piece of masonry had gone through the kitchen, and standing on
fallen bricks and plaster, a cheerful old woman was cooking over a
stove which had somehow escaped destruction.
"It's bad," she said to Graham, as she poured the coffee into cups,
"but it might have been worse, Mr. Spencer. We're all alive. And
I guess I'll understand what my boy's writing home about now.
They've sure brought the war here this night."
Graham carried the coffee into the little parlor, where Clayton sat
dropped on a low chair, his hands between his knees. He was a
strange, disheveled figure, gray of face and weary, and the hand
he held out for the cup was blistered and blackened. Graham did not
touch his coffee. He put it on the mantel, and stood waiting while
Clayton finished his.
"Shall I tell you now, sir?"
Clayton drew a long breath.
"It was Herman Klein who did it?"
"Probably. I had a warning last night, but it was too late.
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