" Garton
turned and hobbled back to his stool.
And Conniston, without a glance over his shoulder, hastened toward the
shed. Before he had gone half the distance he stopped, swung about,
and went slowly back to the office.
"You were right, Tommy," he said, as he stopped in the doorway. "I was
a fool. Understand," he added, quickly, "that if I thought I could be
of one particle more value than the men I shall send in my place the
work here could go to eternal perdition! But I can tell them all that
I know of the way she has gone--and she would want me to stay here and
push the work as if nothing had happened."
Mrs. Ridley, hysterically crying that Argyl was dead, that she _knew_
that she was dead, and that she herself was to blame, came sobbing and
moaning and wringing her hands into the office.
"Don't do that!" Conniston cried, angrily. "If you want to do any
good, go down to the lunch-counter and help your husband put up fifty
lunches. The men may be gone all day. Put up plenty."
She hurried away, drying her eyes now that there was something for her
to do; and the two men, never looking at each other, sat and waited
the coming of Brayley's men.
All that long, endlessly, wretchedly long forenoon, Conniston went
about his work like a man under sentence of death, his face white and
drawn, his step heavy, his voice silent save when necessity drove him
to short, sharp, savage commands.
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