Not precisely waiting, for he was standing by one of the windows, well back from it, and inspecting the mill yard with sharp, darting glances.
“Hello, Dunbar,” said Clayton, and proceeded to shed his fur-lined coat. Dunbar turned and surveyed him with the grudging admiration of the undersized man for the tall one.
“Cold morning,” he said, coming forward. “Not that I suppose you know it.” He glanced at the coat.
“I thought Hutchinson said that you'd gone away.”
“Been to Washington. I brought something back that will interest you.”
From inside his coat he produced a small leather case, and took from it a number of photographs.
“I rather gathered, Mr. Spencer,” he said dryly, “when I was here last that you thought me an alarmist. I don't know that I blame you. We always think the other fellow may get it, but that we are safe. You might glance at those photographs.”
He spread them out on the desk. Beyond the windows the mill roared on; men shouted, the locomotive whistled, a long file of laborers with wheelbarrows went by. And from a new building going up came the hammering of the riveting-machines, so like the rapid explosions of machine guns.
“Interesting, aren't they?” queried Dunbar. “This is a clock-bomb with a strap for carrying it under a coat. That's a lump of coal—only it isn't. It's got enough explosive inside to blow up a battleship. It's meant for that, primarily. That's fire-confetti—damnable stuff—understand it's what burned up most of Belgium. And that's a fountain-pen. What do you think of that? Use one yourself, don't you? Don't leave it lying around. That's all.”
“What on earth can they do with a fountain-pen?”