They went round a row of loaded cars to the timekeeper’s office, where a man told them that Hulton was waiting and they were to go right up.  A dark passage, along which their footsteps echoed, led to a flight of stairs, and they felt there was something oppressive in the gloom, but a small light burned near the top of the building, and when they reached a landing Featherstone touched his partner.  It was at this spot Fred Hulton had been found lying on the floor, with a fouled pistol of a make he was known to practice with near his hand.  Foster shivered as he noted the cleanness of the boards.  It indicated careful scrubbing, and was somehow more daunting than a sign of what had happened there.

A short night of stairs led to the offices of the head of the firm, and the treasurer, whose assistant Fred Hulton had been.  They went on and entered a small, plainly-furnished room, well lighted by electric lamps, where Hulton sat at a writing-table and signed them to sit down.  His shoulders were bent, his clothes hung slackly on his powerful frame, and Featherstone thought his hair had grown whiter since he saw him last.  He looked ill, but his face was hard and resolute, and when he let his eyes rest on the young men his mouth was firmly set.  Hulton’s business acumen and tenacity were known, and it was supposed that the latter quality had helped him much in the earlier part of his career.  The other man, who sat close by, was the treasurer, Percival.

“To begin with, I want to thank you for the way you gave your evidence,” Hulton said to Featherstone, who had been one of the last to see Fred Hulton alive.

“I don’t know that thanks are needed,” Featherstone replied.  “I had promised to tell the truth.”

“Just so.  The truth, however, strikes different people differently, and you gave the matter the most favorable look you could.  We’ll let it go at that.  I suppose you’re still convinced my son was in his usual health and spirits?  Mr. Percival is in my confidence, and we can talk without reserve.”

“Yes, sir; I never found him morbid, and he was cheerful when I saw him late that night.”

“In fact, you were surprised when you heard what happened soon after you left?” Hulton suggested in a quiet voice.

“I was shocked.  But, if I catch your meaning, I was puzzled afterwards, and had better say I see no light yet.”

“Is this how you feel about it?” Hulton asked Foster.

“It is,” said Foster, noting the man’s stern calm, and Hulton turned to Percival.

“That’s my first point!  These men knew my son.”

Then he looked at Featherstone.  “Fred went with you now and then on hunting and prospecting trips, and that probably led to a certain intimacy.  You say he was never morbid; did you ever find him anxious or disturbed?”

Featherstone pondered.  Fred Hulton, who was younger, had spent a year or two in Europe before he entered the factory.  He had moreover told Featherstone about some trouble he had got into there, but the latter could not tell how much his father knew.