AT the expiration of his leave Stephen was detailed for service at the recruiting office that had been opened at Benson; an appointment he received with a very bad grace indeed since if he continued in the post it put a most effectual stop to his career of glory. Virginia, however, was delighted, and even Marian was hardly inclined to give her hero the sympathy he demanded in view of what he conceived to be the extraordinary hard luck that had befallen him.

He now devoted his leisure to Marian, and urged upon her the desirability of their speedy marriage. He found an unexpected ally in Mrs. Benson, who like many mothers, once it was decided her daughter was to marry appeared only anxious to have it over with as soon as possible.

The father of the family, wholly occupied by his invention which he was seeking to have adopted by the government, was ready to agree to anything so long as no demands were made upon his time which was absorbed at the shops, and by the frequent trips he was making to Washington where he had become a familiar figure among the army of hungry contractors, jobbers, and inventors, who like himself had schemes to further with the War Department.

“What about young Landray and Marian?” the lawyer asked him one day; they were in the mechanic's office at the shops.

“Oh, I don't know!” said Tom Benson irritably. “Ask her mother—I got nothing to do with it, Jake.”

“I have asked her; it seems they want to be married before Stephen returns to the front; do you approve? But I suppose you do.”

“Don't lose your temper, Jake, it can't be helped; you're a good enough lawyer, but you know damn little about women or you'd understand why I don't meddle with their plans!”

“I suppose you know that young Landray has very little beside his pay?” said Benson.

“Is that so? Well, I can't see that it matters much. Marian's to stay with us anyhow; and she'd turn up her nose at a man that didn't wear a uniform—and young Landray's all right; he's got quite a knack for machinery, he's a good deal here,” said Tom Benson.

“You mean you can do something for him when the war's over?” inquired the lawyer, who seemed interested in this phase of the case.

“That's about what I'm figuring on doing. I guess Marian's mother'd look to me to see that the young folks didn't want for anything; and she might do lots worse, Jake. I've told him one thing though, I want him to get a couple of thousand dollars and invest them here with me, for him and Marian—in the gun, I mean—he says he can't get the money unless his aunt will borrow it for him.”

“I don't like that!” said Benson quickly. “I wish you'd done nothing of the kind; the demand can only embarrass her.”

“Oh, it ain't that I want the money, Jake. I'll give Marian what'll amount to a good deal more. I want to do my share at starting 'em in life, and this'll be a nice little nest-egg for him when he comes back; and ain't he entitled to something from the estate?”

“I suppose he is,” said Benson grudgingly.

“Well, then, he'd better take it and put it in here where it'll amount to something; he ought to have the handling of his own money.”

“The sum's small enough if a strict accounting was made,” said Benson hastily.

“Still there's something coming to him,” urged the mechanic.

“Of course,” answered Benson reluctantly.

“Well, he'd better put it in here with us, Jake. Look here, I don't want him to be other than fair to his aunt; but if he's going to marry my girl he's got to think of himself.”

“Well, there's nothing to be gained from talking with you,” said Benson frowning. “They'll marry, and that'll be the end of it.”

“No, no use,” admitted Tom Benson absently. “I've got my hands full without trying any arguments with Mrs. Benson; your aunt ain't open to argument—or rather she is; but conviction's a long ways off. Get married yourself and you'll understand why I can storm around down here at the shops, and why I go home as meek as a wet kitten.”

“Of course, I don't want to interfere,” began the lawyer.

“No, you'd better not. The family's on pretty good terms with itself, a thing it never was in your father's day; and all because he wanted to think for us all. That's why him and me never spoke for the last ten years of his life. No, let them have their own way, it'll save a lot of trouble. If there's a wedding, you and me'll act as if we enjoyed weddings!” He fell to rubbing his unshaven chin with the back of his hand; then he took up the model of the breach and stock of his rifle which he had been considering when his nephew entered the office. “It's a great gun, Jake,” he said with fond pride in his invention. “I've got the assurance that it will be given a fair trial; first a company, and if that works, then a regiment. What do you think of calling it the 'Peace-maker?' That's what the country's looking for.” He fixed Benson with his eye. “What do you say to making a thousand of the perfected pattern, against the demand there's sure to be?”

“But you have been making them?”

“Yes,” said the mechanic, “we've about five hundred on hand, but of a former pattern.”

“So many as that!” cried the lawyer. “What do they cost apiece to manufacture?”

“About ten dollars, but the cost is coming down all the time. The first hundred stood us about fifteen, but that was because there was too much hand work put on them. I made the second hundred for twelve and a half; and the last hundred for a shade over ten, but I'll peel it some yet.”

“Do you mean to tell me all that's a loss?” demanded Benson with some show of concern.

“No, of course not, I'll make those over,” responded the mechanic.

“And until you do, about seven thousand dollars are tied up!”

“Somewhere's near that,” said the inventor indifferently. “But look here!” he added quickly. “Just think of the men the government's got enlisted; and once our rifle's given a fair trial every mother's son of them will be lugging a 'Peace-maker;' I'm looking for big returns. We'll be thinking in thousands where we're thinking in hundreds now and holding our breath. Damn the small things! Bently kept me down to them until I pretty near sickened of the business here.”

“Well, don't ruin me,” said Benson.

“Ruin you, Jake! I'll make you ten times the man you are!” said the mechanic.

“Don't you think you'd better go a little slow until you're sure the gun will be accepted?” said the lawyer.

“Oh, I'm sure enough now; but I been pretty near badgered to death by them government experts, as they call themselves; pretty nigh discouraged—but we are to have a fair trial now, and you'll find you've made your best venture with me, Jake.”

About this time Stephen was informed that he would be expected to rejoin his command within six weeks. He went to Virginia and presented the matter to her; he wished to marry Marian before he went to the front, would she be willing to borrow money for him? He had the grace to be shame-faced and embarrassed when he made this request, for he was more than remotely conscious of its selfishness. He also wanted to make the investment Tom Benson advised; in fact, the mechanic was rather urging it upon him. He believed in the rifle himself, and if the mechanic's eloquent figures told the truth, it would give him something to look forward to when the war ended. If they could borrow about twenty-five hundred dollars it would be ample. He only wished the loan to run a year; then he would take it up out of his profits; or if they failed to eventuate by that time, Tom Benson had assured him that he would himself let him have what money he required.

When he enlisted Stephen had determined that he would never again make any demands on Virginia for money; he had even gone through the mental process of relinquishing all claim on the estate; but was glad now that he had not told her of this benevolence of his.

It annoyed him greatly that Jacob Benson would have to know just how the money was secured; but he hoped that some day he could remove his affairs beyond the scope of the lawyer's knowledge. It was deeply humiliating that he should have this intimate acquaintance with them, for he knew that Benson would have his own opinion of him, and he knew him well enough to be aware that he would invest the transaction with none of the large charity with which Virginia was sure to regard it. Virginia said she would see Benson, and learn just what they could do, and with Benson's help, the money was raised; and Stephen was married to Marian three weeks later on the eve of his departure for the front.

Virginia accepted this as she always did the inevitable, with much composure and few words. It was useless to think that Marian could ever be anything to her—perhaps it was her own fault, and she was ready enough to admit that it might be; but there was no affection between them, and she felt that none was possible; and she was more sorry for Stephen than she had ever been for herself, for she knew he must suffer a bitter disappointment.

Tom Benson's gun had its trial, and he came home from Washington where he had received the report of the experts who had conducted the tests, one cold February morning, an aged and broken man. It was scarce day when he arrived in town, but instead of going home he went straight to the office, where he let himself in with the key he always carried; and when Jim Williams the bookkeeper, presented himself there shortly after seven o'clock, he found him still with his hat and overcoat on, and seated before his desk with his hands buried deep in his trousers' pockets, and seemingly quite unmindful of the bitter cold in the fireless room. He had been there for an hour or more but had hardly moved; first in absolute darkness, then the thin grey light had stolen in through the frosted windows, and the sun's faint rays as the day broke. But he had not noticed the change, and it was only when he heard Williams fumbling with numb fingers to fit his key to the lock that he stirred, gruffly calling to him to enter.

“When did you get back?” demanded Jim in frank surprise.

“This morning,” said Benson shortly.

“Train must have been late,” ventured Jim.

“Four hours.”

“Snow?”

“Yes.”

He had removed his hat and outer coat, and was hanging them up on their peg back of the door by his desk.

“Stir round, will you!” said Benson. “And see if you can get a fire started—it's as cold as hell here!”

He had never been an especially agreeable man in his relation with his subordinates; and the bookkeeper after building a fire in the office stove went back into the shops, and informed Shanley the foreman that “The old man was hipped over something, and that he was a mighty good proposition to let alone.”

“Then I'm just the lad to leave him be, if that's so,” said the foreman jocosely.

And Shanley profiting by the hint kept out of the office. Jim's duties, however, did not admit of his taking a similar precaution; but he found that Tom Benson took no notice of him. He sat idly before his desk all the morning and if he noticed anything it was the skirmish line of the heat on the frosted window panes in front of him, which as the day advanced, retreated from the centre of the panes until a circle had been cleared in each, through which one might look.

He was still seated there at midday when the foundry bell clanged clear and sharp from the little square tower on the roof over his head. He watched the hands as they came hurrying out of the big gates, he heard the crisp sound of their footfalls as they disappeared up and down the street, where the snow lay heavy and white; and a smothered curse broke from his twitching lips.

“Did you speak?” asked Jim, who was putting coal in the stove preparatory to leaving, too.

“No,” said Benson gruffly, “I didn't.” Then as the bookkeeper was slipping into his coat, “Stop at the hotel, will you, and have them put me up a snack and a pot of coffee. You can fetch it with you when you come back after dinner.”

But when Williams brought the lunch, he hardly tasted it; and the coffee was cold before he gulped down a cupful of it. This was all he took.

All the afternoon the shops clanged and echoed as the work there went on. It was a sound he had loved once, but now it only brought to him the sickening consciousness that there would come a silence which he should be powerless to vivify into life and energy.

At last he took up a pen and found a sheet of paper and began to write, or rather scrawl, and this scrawl took the form of a letter which he afterward put in an envelope he had already addressed to his nephew. This was what he had written:

“I am just back from Washington. The gun is a failure. It has been finally rejected by the experts, which does not so much matter, for it seems that my patents are not so sound as I supposed. There were others ahead of me with the same idea, and they got the best of it. When I got you to join me in this venture I did not know that I was infringing on any one; but this point was established beyond doubt while I was in Washington, where I had several interviews with the other parties' representatives. I am sorry for you; but you will remember that you yourself told me to go ahead and that you would stand back of me. I did so. You will find that you are much more deeply involved than you have any notion of. I should say that your individual losses will easily reach fifteen or twenty thousand dollars. My own are much heavier, so heavy that I can never meet them. Knowing this, you will understand why I take the course I do.”

The afternoon wore on. He watched the tracery of the frost creep up the panes again. Lights flared in the long rows of windows in the shops, but the sounds there and the rumble of heavy machinery continued until it was quite dark. Then all this ceased with a sudden bang and jar; and again overhead the big bell rang out clear and sharp in the cold night air.

“It's zero weather,” commented Williams getting down from his stool, but his employer gave no heed to what he said, and he busied himself noisily in stamping into his overshoes, then he put on his hat and coat. Benson roused himself.

“Jim!” he said.

“Yes, sir,” answered the bookkeeper briskly.

“What are they doing inside?”

“They are going ahead with the guns.”

“How many have they got?”

“Something over fifteen hundred.”

Benson groaned aloud. It was worse than he supposed. He said huskily:

“You can stop them in the morning. I ain't the heart to; but the government's soured on the whole scheme. It's infernal experts say the gun's no good!” he brought down his fist with a mighty thud on the desk before him. “And its damned Patent Office has allowed me to go ahead with a mechanism that's an infringement on patents already granted; what in hell's name do you think of that!” he left his chair and lurched across the room toward Williams, who was open-mouthed with surprise and dismay. “I've had to spend money like water to find this out! I been buying meals and drinks for the small fry of hungry, thirsty harpies, and taken rebuffs from the big ones in office; me, that counted myself as good as the best! I've had smart lawyers who told me to go ahead, that I was all right, that my gun didn't conflict with no patents issued; the head man in the Patent Office told me the same, but day before yesterday a little twenty-dollar-a-week clerk showed me where I did conflict; and it was so plain that anybody but a government bat who ain't responsible to any one on God's earth for his mistakes, would have seen it with half an eye!”

“It's too bad!” said Williams, at a loss for words.

“Yes, it's too bad!” echoed Benson, with dull inadequacy, dropping back into his chair.

“Hadn't you better go home?” ventured Jim.

“What for?” snarled Benson, relapsing into ill-nature, and regretting his momentary frankness.

“Well, you can't stay here.”

“I want to dip into the books. I want to see where we stand, and figure out what I've dropped on this. I'll go home presently—and you keep your mouth shut until to-morrow.”

When Jim left him, he opened the books which the former had placed on his desk; he knew before he opened them just what he would find; yet he had a vague unreasoning hope that their figures might tell a different story. For half an hour he pored over them and then closed them with a bang.

“I'm a ruined man!” he muttered. “And Jake ain't much better off.”

He took up the lamp from his desk, and unfastening the door that led into the shops, disappeared among the machinery. For a little time his lamp moved to and fro; presently, however, it became stationary, and there was the clanking of a chain; this ceased, and he seemed to be moving some heavy object across the floor, dragging it; then suddenly the light was extinguished, the chain clanked again, violently this time—then there was absolute silence.

Williams, rather troubled by the news that Benson had imparted to him, had gotten no further than the square when he met Shanley the foreman. To him he confided all that their employer had just told him.

“So his gun's no good! I bet he didn't like that; he's always so blame sure of himself;” and Shanley did not attempt to disguise a certain lingering satisfaction that at last Tom Benson had encountered failure.

“It's nothing to chuckle over!” said the bookkeeper resentfully. “If you'd seen him!”

“Well, of course he'd take it hard; he takes everything hard, even his good luck, how'd you expect him to take this?” demanded the foreman.

“If his gun's no good, he's been losing money hand over fist. Look here,” said Williams. “I want you to go back with me.”

“Back with you where?” asked Shanley.

“Why, to the shops; I left him there.”

“You left him there?” cried Shanley.

“Yes, worrying over the books. I got my doubts about him.”

“Hold on, do you mean you think—”

“I don't know what I think; but we'd better go back.”

“He'll think we're spying on him, and I don't want to get the rough edge of his tongue.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Williams. “I'll tell you what we'd better do—we'll go get Jake Benson, and have him go back with us. I tell you we'd be doing all wrong to leave the boss alone there. I don't feel right about it.”

As they were standing on the corner in front of the lawyer's house, this took only a moment; and as the three men turned back toward the shops, Williams briefly explained his fears to Benson, who at each word quickened his pace; they arrived at the office panting and out of breath, but there was no light there now, the frosted panes showed white and clear.

“He's not here—thank the Lord!” said Williams.

“Gone home, I guess,” suggested Shanley.

“Have you your key?” asked Benson of the bookkeeper. “If you have we'll go in and make sure.”

Williams unlocked the door and pushed it open; then he struck a match and rather cautiously entered the room. The others followed him close, treading softly.

“No, he's gone sure enough,” said Williams, giving a sigh of relief. “Probably he's home by this time.”

“Of course he's home if he ain't here!” insisted Shanley. “Well, you've given us a pretty scare!”

“What shall we do?” asked Williams of Benson, as he dropped the end of the match he had been holding.

“I think we'd better go to his house and satisfy ourselves that he's there,” said the lawyer, speaking quietly from the darkness that enveloped them.

They groped their way out into the night again. Williams locked the office door, and then turned to his companions.

“I can go in and ask if he's there; and if he ain't, I can say we were expecting him back, and I thought he might have got in on the late train; we don't want to alarm them, you know. If he's there I'll make some sort of an excuse, say I lost my key in the snow and came to get his so I can open the office in the morning before he gets around.”

It was a short walk to Tom Benson's; and the lawyer, and Shanley, paused in the street opposite the house while Williams crossed and knocked at the front door. It was opened almost immediately and Williams entered the house. A moment later the door opened again, and the bookkeeper rejoined his two companions.

“He ain't there,” he said. “What next?”

“He may have gone up street,” suggested Shanley.

“I think we'd better go back to the office,” said Benson, “and look around again; perhaps he's inside somewhere—possibly in the pattern-room.”

Arrived at the office, Williams again unlocked the door; and the two men followed him in as before, treading softly.

“Find a lamp,” said Benson. “I want to make certain this time whether he's here or not.”

A lamp was found and lighted, and then for the first time Williams noticed that the door leading into the shops was standing slightly ajar. He called the attention of the others to this.

“I closed and fastened it when I left,” he said. “I always do before I go out.”

“He's in the pattern-room probably,” said Benson. “But we'll go back and make sure.”

They were half-way down the long room among the lathes and shafting, when the foreman who was in advance, started back with a cry of horror; for there not ten feet in front of him was a large dark object which seemed to be suspended from the arm of a heavy crane. It was swinging gently to and fro. Near it was a moulder's case set on edge. Then as they looked, the object turned slightly, and the light of their lamp shone full on Tom Benson's rigid face and starting eyes.