The president shook his head mournfully.
"Anybody but Dyckman would have burned them himself, you'd think. It was criminally careless in him not to do so."
"They are the key to the lock," summed up the younger man. "We've got to have them."
"Assuredly—if they are in existence."
"You needn't try to squeeze comfort out of that. I tell you, they went through the fire all right, and Tom has them."
"I am afraid you are right, Vincent; afraid, also, that Dyckman so far forgot himself as to set fire to Gordon's office in the hope of retrieving his own neglect. But how are we to regain them?" Mr. Farley's weapons were two, only: first persuasion, and when that failed, corruption.
Vincent's cold blue eyes were darkening. The little virtues interpose but a slight barrier to a sharp attack of the large vices.
"The fight has fallen into halves," he said briefly. "You go on with your part as if nothing had happened, and I'll do mine. Has the old iron-melter been taken in on it, do you think?"
"No; I don't believe Caleb knows."
"That's better. Are you going up the mountain to-night?"