They drove back in the open sleigh and the horses, chilled in the cold, sent the snow flying about their ears. There was but little talk and it was not until they drew abreast of a stone building that Stoughton spoke.
"Nice jail you've got here," he remarked with a grin. "Looks as if they had been expecting our crowd."
Clark laughed. "It's the home of the only pessimist I have found in
St. Marys."
"Then let's drop in and convert him." Stoughton was feeling warmer, and the keen, dry air and brilliant sun affected him like wine.
There was an instantaneous shout of approval, and three school boys in the shape of the three most influential men of Philadelphia rolled happily out of the sleigh. Riggs turned with mischief in his eye and a bright red patch on his cheek.
"Come on, Clark; we need something like this after the dose you have given us."
At the trampling of feet, Manson looked out of the window, then stepped deliberately to the door. The next minute Clark was busy introducing. "Mr. Manson, this is Mr. Wimperley, auditor of the Columbian Railway Company; Mr. Riggs, president of the Philadelphia Bank, and Mr. Stoughton, of the American Iron Works. We're all cold and cast ourselves on your mercy. They've had enough power canal for to-day."
Manson waved them in with just the gesture with which he motioned a prisoner into the dock. It was the only gesture he knew. His brain was working with unwonted rapidity, and he glanced questioningly at Clark, but the face of the latter was impassive. The visitors grouped themselves round the big box stove that was stuffed with blazing hardwood.
"Lived here long, Mr. Manson?" hazarded Riggs, stretching his thin fingers to the heat.
"All my life, gentlemen, and I don't want anything else."