Solemnly the Interpreter continued, "The one who took the life of your comrade workman, Captain Charlie, was not a tool in the hands of your employers as you have been led to believe. Neither was that dreadful act inspired by the workmen of Millsburgh. Captain Charlie was killed by a poor, foolish weakling who was under the same spell that to-night has so nearly led you into this blind folly of destroying that which should be your glory and your pride. Sam Whaley has confessed to me. He has surrendered himself to the proper authorities. But the instigator of the crime--the one who planned, ordered and directed it--the leader who dominated and drove his poor tool to the deed is this man Jake Vodell."
The sound of the Interpreter's voice ceased. For a moment longer that dead silence held--then as the full import of the old basket maker's words went home to them, the crowd with a roar of fury turned toward the spot where the agitator had stood when the arrival of the Interpreter interrupted his address.
They had carried the Interpreter back to his wheel chair in the hut on the cliff.
John, Peter Martin and the two young women were bidding the old basket maker goodnight when suddenly they were silenced by the dull, heavy sound of a distant explosion.
A moment they stood gazing at one another, then John voiced the thoughts that had gripped the minds of every one in that little group:
Springing to the door that opened on to the balcony porch, John threw it open and they went out, taking the Interpreter in his chair. In breathless silence they strained their eyes toward the dark mass of the Mill with its forest of stacks and its many lights.
"Everything seems to be all right there," murmured John.
But as the last word left his lips a chorus of exclamations came from the others. Farther up the river a dull red glow flushed the sky.
The Interpreter said, quietly, "Jake Vodell."
With every second the red glow grew brighter--reaching higher and higher--spreading wider and wider over the midnight sky. Then they could see the flames--threadlike streaks and flashes in the dark cloud of smoke at first but increasing in volume, climbing and climbing in writhing, twisting columns of red fury. The wild, long-drawn shriek of the fire whistles, the clanging roar of the engines, the frantic rush of speeding automobiles awoke the echoes of the cliffs and aroused the sleeping creatures on the hillsides. The volume of the leaping, whirling mass of flames increased until the red glare shut out the stars.