ou may go," he said to the stenographer. "Now,"--when the
girl had gone,--"you will give me your word?"

"It's all I have."

"How can you convince the men without telling them?"

"Oh, I meant that whatever you tell me shall not see light in the
papers till I have your permission. There's a weekly meeting to-night.
They will decide finally at this meeting. To-morrow will be too late."

Bennington was an accurate judge of men. He felt that he could trust
this shock-headed journalist. If without any loss of self-respect, if
without receding a single step from his position, he could avert the
crash, he would gladly do so. He had reached one determination, and
nothing on earth would swerve him. So he told Ben just exactly what
would happen if the men went out. Ben did not doubt him for a moment.
He, too, was something of a judge of men. This man would never back
down.

"I give you this to show them, if your arguments do not prevail,"
concluded Bennington, producing a folded paper. "They will hardly
doubt this."

Ben opened it. It was a permit from the municipal government to tear
down a brick structure within the city limits. Ben stowed the permit
in his pocket. He looked with admiration at the man who could plan,
coolly and quietly, the destruction of a fortune that had taken a
quarter of a century to build. He was grave. There was a big
responsibility pressing on his shoulders.

"Much obliged. You will never regret the confidence you repose in me.
Now I'll tell you something on my side. It is not the inventor, though
the men believe it is. The inventor is a pretext of Morrissy, the
union leader."

"A pretext?"

"I can't prove what I say, that's the trouble; but McQuade has his
hand in this. I wish to Heaven I could find solid proofs."

"McQuade?" Bennington scowled. He could readily understand now.
McQuade! This was McQuade's revenge. He could wait patiently all this
while!

"I'll do what I can, Mr. Bennington; I'll do what I can."

Bennington ate no lunch that noon. Instead, he wandered about the
great smoky shops, sweeping his glance over the blast-furnaces, the
gutters into which the molten ore was poured, the giant trip-hammers,
the ponderous rolling-machines, the gas-furnaces for tempering fine
steel. The men moved aside. Only here and there a man, grown old in
the shops, touched his grimy cap. ... To tear it down! It would be
like rending a limb, for he loved every brick and stone and girder, as
his