They represented the reluctant element of a large company that had spent the afternoon and early evening at the Black Downs Country Club,--the element that is always reluctant to go home. There had been many intimate little dinner parties during the evening. New York was twenty miles or more away, and there was the Hudson in between. The clock above the huge fireplace had struck eleven a minute or two before the first explosion took place. Chauffeurs in the club-garage were sullenly cursing their employers. All but two or three waiters had gone off to the railway station not far away, and the musicians had made the 10:30 up-train. Peter, the steward, lived on the premises with the chef and several house employes. The late-staying guests were clad in sport clothes, rough and warm and smart,--for it was one of the smartest clubs in the Metropolitan district. A fierce October gale was whining, cold and bitter and relentless, across the uplands; storm-warnings had gone out from the Weather Bureau; coast-wise vessels were scurrying for harbours and farmers all over the land had made snug their livestock against the uncertain elements. If it turned out to be true that the vast Reynolds munitions plant had been blown up, the plotters could not have chosen a more auspicious night for their enterprise. No human force could combat the flames on a night like this; caught on the wings of the wind there would be no stopping them until the ashes of ruin lay wet and sodden where the flight had begun. Mrs. Carstairs was the first to turn away from the windows. She shuddered a little. A pretty, nervous young wife sidled up to her, and laid a trembling hand on her arm. “Wouldn't it be dreadful if there were a lot of people at work over there when--when it happened?” she cried, in a tense, strained voice. “Just think of it.” “Don't think about it, Alice dear. Think of what they are going through in France and Belgium.” “But we really aren't fighting them yet,” went on the other, plaintively. “Why should they blow up our factories? Oh, these dreadful, terrible Germans.” Then suddenly, in confusion: “I--I beg your pardon.” Mrs. Carstairs smiled pleasantly. “That's all right, my dear. A good many of us suffer for the sins of the fathers. Besides, we are in the war, and have been for six months or more.” “We all hate the Kaiser, don't we?” pleaded the younger woman. Mrs. Carstairs pressed her arm. “None more so than those of us whose parents left Germany to escape such as he.” “I'm glad to hear you say that.” “Beg pardon,” said Peter the steward, at Mrs. Carstairs' elbow. “I think this is yours. You dropped it just now.” “Thank you, Peter,” said she, taking the crumpled handkerchief he handed her. “I shan't drop it again,” she went on, smiling as she stuffed it securely in the gold mesh bag she was carrying.