It was from Henry Tuttle, on the company's legal stationery, enclosing the affidavits relating to Pelham's activities in the New Haven strike. The letter was burned, the ashes scattered. The next afternoon's _Register_ informed Pelham of the company's terms, which were to take back all except the ringleaders, some twenty in number--he noticed the names of Jensen and the committeemen heading it--at the old rate, with an agreement from each man binding him not to join the union. The strikers under arrest, continued the account, would be discharged in all probability, except in cases of serious nature. The same paper contained the sparse outline of another story, which Pelham read with a growing horror. At three-thirty the previous afternoon, an old man had entered the mining company's office, and asked for Paul Judson. "What name?" His watery blue eyes danced peculiarly beneath stringy white hair. "He doesn't know me. It's important." "We must have your name." Fumbling first on one foot, then the other, he eyed the uninterested clerk closely. At length he made up his mind. "My name is Duckworth--Christopher Duckworth, tell him. I've come about the settlement of the strike." She marked down the name, snapping to the drawer. "He's out of town to-day." "When does he return?" "Maybe late this evening ... maybe not until to-morrow." Suspicious old eyes searched her face. "Sure he isn't in?" "I told you once, didn't I?" "He may return to-day?" "Maybe." "I'll wait." Passers in and out of the offices remembered his shoving a paper hurriedly into his pocket as they neared. About an hour later, when the information clerk left for a few minutes, he rose, and started to open the door marked "Paul Judson: Private." "Where you going?" an accounting clerk demanded, watching his unusual movements. "Mr. Judson wants to see me." "He isn't there." He caught the old man roughly by the arm, as he tried to push past. The enfeebled socialist retreated to the center of the room. "Give him this," his quavering tones insisted, pushing a piece of paper into surprised hands. The clerk looked up hurriedly, some warning of the unexpected, the dangerous, reaching him. His eyes caught the rusty glint of metal. He jumped. At the same moment, the roar of the shot rattled the windows, acrid smoke swirled throughout the room, the old man's legs buckled up. He fell quietly to the floor; his shoes scraped the flooring once. He lay still. The clerk read the note aloud, after the morgue had been phoned, and the body covered. "To Paul Judson: "This act is my punishment, for living on the earth your presence scars; a just God will punish you in another world. "This act will bring home to your conscience your responsibility for murder: "Murder of twenty-three miners in the mine explosion; "Murder of John Dawson, and fifty innocent strikers, by the guns of your gunmen; "Murder of your guards by your own acts;