Twice before he reached the gate of the Grierson lawn he fancied he was followed, and twice he stepped behind the nearest shade-tree and tightened his grip upon the thing in his right-hand pocket. But both times the rearward sidewalk showed itself empty. Since false alarms may have, for the moment, all the shock of the real, he found that his hands were trembling when he came to unlatch the Grierson gate, and it made him vindictively self-scornful. Also, it gave him a momentary glimpse into another and hitherto unmeasured depth in the valley of stumblings. In the passing of the glimpse he was made to realize that it is the coward who kills; and kills because he is a coward.
He had traversed the stone-flagged approach and climbed the steps of the broad veranda to reach for the bell-push when he heard his name called softly in the voice that he had come to know in all of its many modulations. The call came from the depths of one of the great wicker lounging-chairs half-hidden in the veranda shadows. In a moment he had placed another of the chairs for himself, dropping into it wearily.
"How did you know it was I?" he asked, when he could trust himself to speak.
"I saw you at the gate," she returned. "Are you just up from the Iron Works?"
"I have been to dinner since we came up-town—Raymer and I."
A pause, and then: "The men are still holding out?"
"We are holding out. The plant is closed, and it will stay closed until we can get another force of workmen."
"There will be lots of suffering," she ventured.
"Inevitably. But they have brought it upon themselves."
"Not the ones who will suffer the most—the women and children," she corrected.