After the car had gone on, Tregarvon kept the first part of his promise, covering the half-mile briskly. Tryon was at his post, killing time with the aid of strong tobacco and a railroad man’s clay pipe. He had relieved Rucker at noon, in accordance with his orders; there had been no Sunday-afternoon visitors--nothing to disturb the peace of the day of rest. Tregarvon listened perfunctorily to the foreman’s report. His object in delaying his return to Coalville had been only half formed at the moment of car stopping, but it had nothing to do with checking up the day-watchman. The talk with Elizabeth and its astounding revelations had opened new vistas. With Elizabeth calmly proposing to marry some one else, if the some one else should ask her, a full half of the spur which had been driving him to fight the Ocoee battle to a finish was gone. Under the changed conditions the sensible thing to do, after all, might be to close with the coal trust’s offer. But before committing himself finally to this, he was inclined to go to Hartridge with a frank plea for a word of friendly advice. From what had transpired it was evident that the professor of mathematics knew much more about the Ocoee and its mysteries than he had as yet been willing to tell; and though the episode of the steel cubes seemed to array him definitely on the side of the enemy, his later warning in the matter of bargain and sale was unquestionably disinterested, if not actively amicable. Tregarvon was still considering the half-formed resolve to appeal to Hartridge when Tryon fished in the pocket of his overalls and brought up three small cubes of metal, the exact counterparts of the one which Carfax had taken from the pocket of the schoolmaster’s overcoat. “I been savin’ these to show you,” said the foreman, handing the bits of metal to Tregarvon. “What-all d’you reckon they’re meant for?” Tregarvon permitted the query to go unanswered. “Where did you find them?” he asked. “In the pocket of an old coat that Jim Sawyer’s been wearin’ here on the job. It’s hangin’ up in the tool shanty. I run out o’ matches a little spell ago, and went to rummagin’ ’round to see if I couldn’t find some.” “Sawyer’s coat, eh?” said Tregarvon, struck suddenly alert. Tryon nodded soberly. “An’ that ain’t all,” he went on. “I got a file and tried ’em; they’re harder ’n flint--been tempered till you couldn’t cut ’em with anything softer ’n an emery-wheel. Rucker’d been tellin’ me how the drills went all to the bad that time when you was hung up before the old b’iler bu’sted. Sawyer’s got a tool-box in the shanty where he keeps his wrenches and little traps. It was locked, but I happened to have a key that fitted. What d’you reckon I found?” “More of these?” “You’ve hit it plumb centre; a tomatter can about half full of ’em.” “Tell me all you know about Sawyer,” Tregarvon cut in concisely.