One of these was a man who, standing at the door of a native saloon across the street and a little farther up, had come diagonally over towards the bank on seeing the engineer halt his car. He walked with a slouching haste seldom exhibited by a Mexican and gained the spot as Weir stepped out. There he slackened his pace while he scanned the American with an intense, slow gaze that the engineer, chancing to raise his eyes, squarely met. The Mexicans always looked at him and fell silent when he passed since he had shown who was master at the dam. In the eyes of some was merely stupid curiosity, in some a shrinking, and in many a half-veiled hostility. That did not trouble Weir. In Mexico he had dealt with recalcitrant workmen of more lawless nature than these. He usually ignored them altogether now as they no longer were in his employ. But this man seized his attention. It was not yet too dark to mark his face as he lounged past, slowly turning his head about as he progressed until his chin was on his shoulder, staring back. His look the while remained riveted on Weir--a steady, contemplative, evil regard. In Chihuahua the engineer had once seen a notorious local "killer" who had that same gaze. Martinez had also glanced at the fellow. "Who is that man? One of the discharged workmen?" Weir asked him, when moving forward they in turn had passed the Mexican. "No, I imagine not. At any rate, he doesn't belong in San Mateo or anywhere hereabouts. I know everybody for fifty miles, for I've been active in social and political affairs. He's unknown to me. A stranger." Then a little farther along: "Here is my office, Mr. Weir. I'll have a light in an instant. Ah, now. Be so good as to have a chair and we'll expedite your business." As Martinez filled out the acknowledgment blanks on the papers, his eyes furtively skipped over the vital portions of the documents. The latter were connected with company business. He had hoped they would be personal so that he might learn something more of this manager's affairs, possibly more of his secret antagonism for Sorenson and his friends. Any intrigue appealed to the thin, slippery lawyer's soul, but most of all some one's else intrigue into which he might profitably put a finger. However, from these papers he was to learn nothing. He had considered all possibilities of the affair, all possible solutions of what long ago might have occurred between Joseph Weir, undoubtedly the father of the man sitting across the table from him, and the four men now conferring in Sorenson's office. This was no petty squabble, he divined. There was something going on under the surface that was big--big! And very dangerous too, for the spirit of that moment in Vorse's bar was not to be mistaken; it had been tense, electric. Utmost caution on Martinez's part would therefore be necessary.