For a moment his glance rested on the limousine and the two half-seen
figures within. As it did so, a wanton breeze from off the Island
flapped back the lapel of his jumper. In that brief instant one might
have seen a button pinned upon his blue flannel shirt--clasped hands,
surrounded by the legend: "Workers of the World, Unite!"
But neither of the plutocrats observed this; nor, had they seen, would
they have understood.
And whether the sturdy toiler had overheard aught of their infernal
conspiring--or, having heard it, grasped its dire and criminal
significance--who, who in all this weary and toil-burdened world, could
say?
CHAPTER V.
IN THE LABORATORY.
Half an hour's run down Staten Island, along smooth roads lined with
sleepy little towns and through sparse woods beyond which sparkled the
shining waters of the harbor, brought the two plutocrats to the quiet
settlement of Oakwood Heights.
Now the blase chauffeur swung the car sharply to the left, past the
aviation field, and so came to the wide-scattered settlement--almost a
colony--which, hidden behind high, barb-wire-topped fences, carried on
the many and complex activities of the partners' experiment station.
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