The sounds puzzled him. They were methodical, deliberate--not as if finding out the way, but as if accustomed to the place and to darkness. ... Simeon Tetlow, himself?--The thought flashed at him and drew back. ... A light stole through the gloom--the focused glow of the electric pocket candle on a desk across the room--Simeon’s desk. John leaned forward, holding his breath. ... Behind the candle, a vague form--a massive head and shoulders, bending above the lock of the desk.... The key was fitted in and the top lifted. Then, for the first time, the man seemed to hesitate, his head turning itself a little in the shadow and waiting, as if disturbed. The glow of the candle suddenly went out and the steps moved stealthily. John straightened himself--the clinched hand ready.... The steps receded slowly and a hand fumbled at the open window, lowering it without sound and drawing down the thick shade. The man moved to the other window and closed it. The youth on the lounge caught the muttered sound of his own name, as if in imprecation.... Then the steps again. ... And suddenly the soft candle--shining in the dark. The man reached into the half-gloom of the desk for a ledger. He seemed to know without hesitation which he wanted. He opened it and fell to work, apparently in the middle of a page, the sinister eye of the candle traveling up and down the columns, the scratching pen transcribing figures to a kind of muttered accompaniment. John recognized the book, in the shadowy light.... He ought not to have left it there. He had more than half guessed this thing before.... So this was the reason why Hemenway & Hill countermanded their order for fifty cars, a week ago, and Gardner & Hutchinson changed their mind about shipping their wheat the thirtieth... and this thing had been going on for weeks?--months?... No, it was only within six weeks that the book had been tampered with.... His mind ran back over the time, fitting each coincidence in place.... So this was it! It was state prison for the man.... But suppose he were not arrested?... Suppose he were let to go free--in fear of his life.... John, watching, gauged the man, sitting there in the night, his busy pen writing his own doom.... He should go on sending the reports. The enemy should have their bulletin from day to day, but it should be compiled by John Bennett. The scribe should have only the work of copying.... It might save time if the arrangement were completed now. He moved his hand a trifle toward the wall behind him, groping a little. The next minute the room was a blaze of light and the man at the desk was on his feet, stifling a quick cry--blinking at the looping bulbs of light. He made a swift step toward the door; but some one, broad-shouldered and smiling, stood against it. “Sit down, Harrington,” said John quietly.