Were there ghosts, then, in mills in broad daylight?
None but the ghosts of Want and Hunger and Crime, he might have known, that do not wait for night to walk our streets: the ghosts that poor old Knowles hoped to lay forever.
Holmes had a room fitted up in the mill, where he slept.

He went up to it slowly, holding the paper tightly in one hand, glancing at the operatives, the work, through his furtive half-shut eye.

Nothing escaped him.

Passing the windows, he did not once look out at the prophetic dream of beauty he had left without.

In the mill he was of the mill.