The yards at Dorby were in full work. In spite of the wrecking, work went on just the same. There was no general dislocation. The phenomenon was typical of the hard-headed northern worker, and the sureness of the steady control of the great enterprise. Every unit of that great army of workers went through the daily routine with one eye upon the time-sheet, and the other upon the privileges which his union bestowed upon him. For the rest, his personal concerns only began when the steam siren sounded the completion of his day's work. In the privacy of the offices, just within the gates of the yards, Ruxton and his father were at liberty to talk more freely. Yet for some minutes after their arrival their inclination kept them silent. Each was thinking on the lines which appealed most. Ruxton was not thinking of Dorby at all. Sir Andrew was standing squarely upon the skin rug, with his back to the fire. More than ever he assumed the likeness to a pictorial John Bull. Even the somewhat old-fashioned morning-coat he wore added to the resemblance. Ruxton had flung himself into a large easy-chair. The room was lofty and luxurious. Nor was its fashion extremely modern. It savored of mid-Victorian days, when luxury in the office of a commercial magnate was first brought to its perfection. The rain had increased, and, beyond the lofty windows, it was now steadily teeming. Sir Andrew was the first to speak. "I'm trying to fathom the significance of it," he said, a little helplessly. Ruxton's dark eyes withdrew from the window. "Don't," he said. Then he added: "It's not worth it." His father's shrewd eyes regarded him speculatively. "Not worth it? How?" "Why, because you will discover it, and it will have been trouble for nothing." "I don't understand." "It is simple. There is only one meaning to it. Terror." In spite of the old man's disturbance his eyes twinkled. "They'll achieve precious little of that. If that's all----" "Exactly, Dad. Purposeless destruction is a fetish of this people. Their psychology has an abnormal belief in terror. They judge everybody the same. You have seen it in a hundred ways. Except for this they are anything but fools. But in this they are almost childlike. They know they cannot stop the work in these yards. They know if they destroy a dozen sets of plans there will still be more forthcoming. They know all this, and are childishly, impotently furious. Their first thought is revenge, and then terrorizing. They think they can frighten us into abandoning the work, perhaps. I don't know. There is one thing certain: speculation on the matter is waste of your valuable efforts. Sparling is right; they have shown their hand. They will get no second chance on the same lines. They have achieved two weeks' delay. That is all they have achieved--here." "Here?"