“Why, I guess so,” he answered, after a moment.  “What name shall I say?”

“Miss Bumpus.”

“Bumpus,” he repeated.  “That’s the gatekeeper’s name.”

“I’m his daughter—­but I want to see Mr. Ditmar.”

“Well,” said the sergeant, “I’m sure it’s all right, but I’ll have to send in anyway.  Orders are orders.  You understand?”

She nodded as he departed.  She saw him cross the bridge like a ghost through the white mist rising from the canal.  And through the mist she could make out the fortress-like mass of the mill itself, and the blurred, distorted lights in the paymaster’s offices smeared on the white curtain of the vapour.

“Nasty weather,” the sentry remarked, in friendly fashion.  He appeared now, despite his uniform, as a good-natured, ungainly youth.

Janet nodded.

“You’d ought to have brought an umbrella,” he said.  “I guess it’ll rain harder, before it gets through.  But it’s better than ten below zero, anyhow.”

She nodded again, but he did not seem to resent her silence.  He talked about the hardship of patrolling in winter, until the sergeant came back.

“It’s all right, Miss Bumpus,” he said, and touched his hat as he escorted her to the bridge.  She crossed the canal and went through the vestibule without replying to the greeting of the night-watchman, or noticing his curious glance; she climbed the steel-clad stairway, passed the paymaster’s offices and Mr. Orcutt’s, and gained the outer office where she had worked as a stenographer.  It was dark, but sufficient light came through Ditmar’s open door to guide her beside the rail.  He had heard her step, and as she entered his room he had put his hands heavily on his desk, in the act of rising from his chair.

“Janet!” he said, and started toward her, but got no farther than the corner of the desk.  The sight of her heaving breast, of the peculiar light that flashed from beneath her lashes stopped him suddenly.  Her hands were in her pockets.  “What is it?” he demanded stupidly.

But she continued to stand there, breathing so heavily that she could not speak.  It was then that he became aware of an acute danger.  He did not flinch.

“What is it?” he repeated.

Still she was silent.  One hand was thrust deeper into its pocket, he saw a shudder run through her, and suddenly she burst into hysterical weeping, sinking into a chair.  He stood for some moments helplessly regarding her before he gained the presence of mind to go to the door and lock it, returning to bend over her.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, shrinking from him.

“For God’s sake tell me what’s the matter,” he begged.

She looked up at him and tried to speak, struggling against the sobs that shook her.

“I—­I came here to—­to kill you—­only I can’t do it.”

“To kill me!” he said, after a pause.  In spite of the fact that he had half divined her intention, the words shocked him.  Whatever else may be said of him, he did not lack courage, his alarm was not of a physical nature.  Mingled with it were emotions he himself did not understand, caused by the unwonted sight of her loss of self-control, of her anger, and despair.  “Why did you want to kill me?”