building with a shed like an exaggerated collar about its throat. At this hour there was no operator on duty. Only one or two oil lamps maintained an indifferent resistance to the mist. Garth saw a horse and carriage at the rear. He walked to it.
"Could you drive me to Mr. Andrew Alden's place?" he asked.
From the depths of the carriage a native's voice replied:
"Probably you're the party I'm looking for. If you're Mr. Garth from New York, step in."
Garth obeyed, and they drove off along a road for the most part flanked by thick woods.
Without warning, through an open space, Garth saw a flame spring upward, tearing the mist and splashing the sky with wanton scarlet.
"What's that?" he asked sharply.
The glare diminished and died. The native clucked to his horse.
"Mr. Alden's furnaces," he answered.
Garth stirred.
"I see. Iron. Steel. And now it works night and day?"
"On war orders," the native answered. "Now you wouldn't think we'd ever have got in the war, would you? There's a whole town—board shacks—to take care of the men—more'n fifteen hundred of them."
Garth nodded thoughtfully. Here at the start was a condition that might make the presence of a detective comforting to his host.
