In the evening of the thirty-first of January Clayton and Graham were
waiting for Natalie to come down to dinner when the bell rang, and
Dunbar was announced. Graham welcomed the interruption. He had been
vaguely uneasy with his father since that day in his office when Clayton
had found him on Anna Klein's desk. Clayton had tried to restore the old
friendliness of their relation, but the boy had only half-heartedly met
his advances. Now and then he himself made an overture, but it was the
almost timid advance of a puppy that has been beaten. It left Clayton
discouraged and alarmed, set him to going back over the past for any
severity on his part to justify it. Now and then he wondered if,
in Graham's frequent closetings with Natalie, she did not covertly
undermine his influence with the boy, to increase her own.

But if she did, why? What was going on behind the impassive, lovely mask
that was her face.

Dunbar was abrupt, as usual.

"I've brought you some news, Mr. Spencer," he said. He looked oddly
vital and alive in the subdued and quiet room. "They've shown their hand
at last. But maybe you've heard it."

"I've heard nothing new."

"Then listen," said Dunbar, bending forward over a table, much as it was
his habit to bend over Clayton's desk. "We're in it at last. Or as good
as in it. Unrestricted submarine warfare! All merchant-ships bound
to and from Allied ports to be sunk without warning! We're to be
allowed--mark this, it's funny!--we're to be allowed to send one ship a
week to England, nicely marked and carrying passengers only."