“We’ve a lot of automatics,” acknowledged Mac.  “Your grandfather’s idea, Miss Mary.  A grand man.  He was one of the first to make the machine think instead of the operator.”

“How long does it take to break in an ordinary man?”

“A few weeks is generally enough.  It depends on the man and the tool.”

Mary told him then what she had in her mind, and Mac didn’t think much of it until she showed him the photographs.  Even then he was “michty cautious” until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory in Glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe work.

“Think of that now,” said he; “in Glasga’!” As he looked, the frost left his eye.  “A grand lot of lasses,” he said and cleared his throat.

“If they can do it, we can do it, too—­don’t you think so?”

“Why not?” he asked.  “For let me tell you this, Miss Mary.  Those old countries are all grand countries—­to somebody’s way of thinking.  But America is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn’t keep coming here as fast as ships can bring them!  What they can do, yes, we can do—­and add something for good measure, if need be!”

“Well, that’s it,” said Mary, eagerly.  “If we go into the war, we shall have to do the same as they are doing in Europe—­let women do the factory work.  And if it comes to that, I want Spencer & Son to be ready—­to be the first to do it—­to show the others the way!”

Mac nodded.  “A bit of your grandfather, that,” he thought with approval.

“So what I want you to do,” she concluded, “is to make me up a list of machines that women can be taught to handle the easiest, and let me have it as soon as you can.”

“I’ll do that,” he grimly nodded.  “There’s far too many vacant now.”

“And remember, please, you are not to say anything.  Because, you know, people would only laugh at the idea of a woman being able to do a man’s work.”

“I’m mute,” he nodded again, and started for the door, his mouth buttoned very tightly indeed.  But even while his hand was stretched out to reach the knob, he paused and then returned to the desk.

“Miss Mary,” he said, “I’m an old man, and you’re a young girl.  I know nothing, mind you, but sometimes there are funny things going on in the world.  And a man’s not a fool.  What I’m going to tell you now, I want you to remember it, but forget who told it to you.  Trust nobody.  Be careful.  I can say no more.”

“He means Uncle Stanley,” thought Mary, uneasily, and a shadow fell upon the day.  She was still troubled when another disturbing incident arose.

“I’ll leave these papers in the desk here,” she thought, taking her keys from her handbag.  She unlocked the top drawer and was about to place the papers on top of those which already lay there, when suddenly she paused and her eyes opened wide.

On the top letter in her drawer—­a grey tinted sheet—­was a scattered mound of cigarette ash.