"Mr. Judson wants to see me."
"He isn't there."
He caught the old man roughly by the arm, as he tried to push past.
The enfeebled socialist retreated to the center of the room.
"Give him this," his quavering tones insisted, pushing a piece of paper into surprised hands.
The clerk looked up hurriedly, some warning of the unexpected, the dangerous, reaching him. His eyes caught the rusty glint of metal.
He jumped. At the same moment, the roar of the shot rattled the windows, acrid smoke swirled throughout the room, the old man's legs buckled up. He fell quietly to the floor; his shoes scraped the flooring once. He lay still.
The clerk read the note aloud, after the morgue had been phoned, and the body covered.
"To Paul Judson:
"This act is my punishment, for living on the earth your presence scars; a just God will punish you in another world.
"This act will bring home to your conscience your responsibility for murder:
"Murder of twenty-three miners in the mine explosion;
"Murder of John Dawson, and fifty innocent strikers, by the guns of your gunmen;
"Murder of your guards by your own acts;
"Murder of the bodies, hearts and souls of starving strikers. Murder of good in all people. Murder of justice in your courts.
"Murder of me, as a warning of what you deserve.
"Christopher Duckworth."
"Can you beat it?" the clerk whistled. "A plain nut."