There was silence for some moments while Daly pondered this, although Foster imagined he had carefully weighed the thing before.  Then he asked abruptly:  “Did your partner think he saw me?”

“No,” said Foster, who resolved to tell the truth.

Somewhat to his surprise, Daly made a sign of acquiescence.  “Very well!  You are near the mark, and I’ll tell you what happened.  There’s not much risk in this, because no Judge would admit as evidence something you declared you had been told.  Besides, I’ll own that it’s an unlikely tale.  I was not at or near the factory that night, but I had done some business with Fred Hulton.  The lad was a gambler and I’d lent him money; as a matter of fact, I never got it all back.  However, a man who now and then acted as my agent learned something about the customs of the factory and went there the night he met Featherstone.  But he did not shoot Fred Hulton.”

“Then how was the lad killed?”

“He shot himself; in a way, by accident.”

Foster looked at Daly with ironical surprise.  “Your friends deal too much in accidents!  It was by an accident Walters left Featherstone on the snow couloir.”

“It doesn’t matter if you disbelieve me; this is what happened,” Daly rejoined.  “My friend—­we’ll call him the man—­went to the office late in the evening and after some talk, covered Hulton with his pistol.  The lad had had some trouble about his debts, because the old man would have fired him out of the business if he’d heard of them, and his nerve wasn’t good.  He opened the safe when he was told and the man took the bonds and went out of the office, leaving Hulton in his chair.  We don’t know what the lad thought, but perhaps he saw he would be suspected or was ashamed of not showing more grit.  Anyhow, when the man was on the stairs Hulton came up behind and told him to stop.  He had a pistol, but looked strained and nervous, and the other, who had put his away, made a rush at him.  Hulton slipped on the steps, his pistol went off, and when he rolled to the bottom the other saw he was dead.”

Foster was silent for a time.  The story was, on the whole, plausible, and although he did not see why Daly had told it him, he thought he spoke the truth.  So far he had been clearing the ground and had not reached his object yet, but Daly showed no inclination to hurry him.  They were not likely to be disturbed, and although the rocking of the car and throb of wheels indicated that the train was running fast, the next station was some distance ahead.  There was moonlight outside and he saw towering rocks and masses of dark trees roll past.

“Well,” he remarked, “you have had a strange career.  Leading a gang of swindlers must have been a change from helping a philanthropist.”

Daly smiled rather grimly.  “For a long time I served a strange man.  Philanthropy loses its charm when it becomes a business and results are demanded from all the money given.  Then my pay was arranged on the surmise that to be engaged in such an occupation was reward enough, and something must be allowed for the natural reaction.  As a matter of fact, I’m not surprised that Featherstone robbed my employer.  He deserved it; but I think we can let that go.”