CHAPTER XIII.
WHERE THE MILL STREAM RUNS FIERCEST Two o'clock.
Three o'clock.
Two men were talking below their breaths in the otherwise empty office.
"That 'ere mill stream never gives up anything it has once caught," muttered one into the ear of the other.

"It's swift as fate and in certain places deep as hell.

Dutch Jan's body was five months at the bottom of it, before it came up at Clark's pool." The man beside him shivered and his hand roamed nervously towards his breast.
"Did Jan, the Dutchman you speak of, fall in by accident, or did he--throw himself over--from homesickness, or some such cause ?" "Wa'al we don't say; on account of his old mother, you know, we don't say.

It was called accident." The other man rose and walked restlessly to the window.
"Half the town is up," he muttered.

"The lanterns go by like fire-flies.
Poor Ransom! It's a hopeless job, I fear." And again his hand wandered to that breast pocket where the edge of a document could be seen.