five years for himself as a
managing editor, he found he had lost nothing of his wholesome respect
for Hartson. The latter's back was turned when Galbraithe entered, and
he waited at the rail until the man looked up. Then with a start
Galbraithe saw that this was not Hartson at all.

"I--I beg pardon," he stammered.

"Well?" demanded the stranger.

"I expected to find Mr. Hartson," explained Galbraithe.

"Hartson?"

"I used to be on the staff and--"

"Guess you're in the wrong office," the stranger shut him off abruptly.

For a moment Galbraithe believed this was possible, but every scarred
bit of furniture was in its place and the dusty clutter of papers in the
corner had not been disturbed. The new city editor glanced suspiciously
toward Galbraithe's dress suit case and reached forward as though to
press a button. With flushed cheeks Galbraithe retreated, and hurried
down the corridor toward the reportorial rooms. He must find Billy
Bertram and get the latter to square him with the new city editor. He
made at once for Billy Bertram's desk, with hand extended. Just beyond
was the desk he himself had occupied for so long. Bertram looked up and
then Galbraithe saw that it was not Bertram at all.

"What can I do for you, old man?" the stranger inquired. He was a fellow
of about Bertram's age, and a good deal of Bertram's stamp.

"I'm looking for Billy Bertram," stammered Galbraithe. "Guess he must
have shifted his desk."

He glanced hopefully at the other desks in the room but he did not
recognize a face.

"Bertram?" inquired the man who occupied Bertram's desk. He turned to
the man next to him.

"Say, Green, any one here by the name of Bertram?"

Green lighted a fresh cigarette, and shook his head.

"Never heard of him," he replied indifferently.

"He used to sit here," explained Galbraithe.

"I've held down this chair fifteen months, and before me a chump by the
name of Weston had that honor. Can't go back any further than that."

Galbraithe lowered his dress suit case, and wiped his forehead. Every
one in the room took a suspicious glance at the bag.

"Ever hear of Sanderson?" Galbraithe inquired of Green.

"Nope."

"Ever hear of Wadlin or Jerry Donahue or Cartwright?"

Green kicked a chair toward him.

"Sit down, old man," he suggested. "You'll feel better in a minute."

"Ever hear of Hartson? Ever hear of old Jim Hartson?"

"That's all right," Green encouraged him. "If you have a line in