His attitude fretted the old gentleman. “Funny thing, Lady-bird, that Luke can’t show a little feeling over poor old Ben! I wanted to shut the mill down for a day, in memory of him, or half a day, anyhow, but Luke won’t hear of it, and he hasn’t a good word to say of the old chap. Can’t understand it. Why, if he was _here_, you might say it was jealousy, Luke being so ambitious to do everything his own way, but a _dead_ man, Lady-bird! It’s--it’s _hard_! I don’t like it!” He told his young superintendent that he didn’t like it--told him with vigor and feeling, in the middle of a driving, high-keyed afternoon, in spite of his daughter’s coaxing hand on his arm. Luke Manders started to speak excitedly, got hold of himself, paced up and down the room for a moment and then faced his employer gravely. “Mr. Carey, sir,” he began, with something in his tone which made Glen, passing through to the spinning room, stop and stare, “you think it’s queer I can’t take on over Birdsall. Well, I’m not shedding any tears over a thief.” “_Luke!_” It was Glen who cried out. Mr. ’Gene Carey’s genial old face flushed an angry cardinal. “Now, look here, Manders, I won’t stand for that! I won’t listen to a word against old Ben, not even from you. You’re jealous of him for some reason, Lord knows why, for he was a good friend to you while he was here, and always glad to see you advance! I think it’s pretty small business, Luke, when a man’s dead and gone, to----” The mountaineer colored likewise but he held his head high, and there was patience in his voice, and regret. “I’m mighty sorry, Mr. Carey. I wish I could keep still about it all. I’d put the flag at half mast and hang crape over the whole place, yes, and cry like a nigger at a gospel meeting, if I could keep you fooled. But I couldn’t, Mr. Carey. You’d have to know sometime, sir. You’d have to know.” It was very still in the stuffy little office of the Altonia, and the old man and the two girls who were looking at him and listening to him seemed to hold their breath. Nancy was the least moved of the three, but her tender and lyrical gaze grew softer, and Glen Darrow paled swiftly, while the senior partner’s dark and dangerous flush increased until his face was mottled and congested looking. “What do you mean?” he managed thickly. “What are you trying to tell me, Luke Manders, about poor old Ben Birdsall, lying in his grave out there in California?” The superintendent cleared his throat. There was nothing hard about him now. He hesitated, and showed in look and tone and tempo the most unmistakable distaste for his unlovely task. “I wish I didn’t _have_ to try to tell you, sir. I wish to God I didn’t! You won’t believe me, at first. You won’t want to believe me. But I can show you the books, and I can show you the files.”