le was worth more
than all of old man Flagg's millions, not knowing they were YOUR
millions. Suppose he didn't ask any money of you, but just to take care
of you, to slave for you--only wanted to keep your pretty hands from
working, and your pretty eyes from seeing sickness and pain. Suppose you
met that man among this rotten lot, what would you do? What wouldn't you
do?"

"Why, Anita!" exclaimed Miss Page.

"What would you do?" demanded Anita Flagg. "This is what you'd do: You'd
go down on your knees to that man and say: 'Take me away! Take me away
from them, and pity me, and be sorry for me, and love me--and love
me--and love me!"

"And why don't you?" cried Helen Page.

"Because I'm as rotten as the rest of them!" cried Anita Flagg. "Because
I'm a coward. And that's why I'm crying. Haven't I the right to cry?"

At the exact moment Miss Flagg was proclaiming herself a moral coward,
in the local room of the REPUBLIC Collins, the copy editor, was editing
Sam's story' of the laying of the corner-stone. The copy editor's cigar
was tilted near his left eyebrow; his blue pencil, like a guillotine
ready to fall upon the guilty word or paragraph, was suspended in
mid-air; and continually, like a hawk preparing to strike, the blue
pencil swooped and circled. But page after page fell softly to the desk
and the blue pencil remained inactive. As he read, the voice of Collins
rose in muttered ejaculations; and, as he continued to read, these
explosions grew louder and more amazed. At last he could endure no
more and, swinging swiftly in his revolving chair, his glance swept the
office. "In the name of Mike!" he shouted. "What IS this?"

The reporters nearest him, busy with pencil and typewriters, frowned in
impatient protest. Sam Ward, swinging his legs from the top of a table,
was gazing at the ceiling, wrapped in dreams and tobacco smoke. Upon his
clever, clean-cut features the expression was far-away and beatific. He
came back to earth.

"What's what?" Sam demanded.

At that moment Elliott, the managing editor, was passing through the
room his hands filled with freshly pulled proofs. He swung toward
Collins quickly and snatched up Sam's copy. The story already was
late--and it was important.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. Over the room there fell a sudden hush.

"Read the opening paragraph," protested Collins. "It's like that for a
column! It's all about a girl--about a Red Cross nurse. Not a word about
Flagg or Lor