on the 'Herald' for nothing
in the world but this. It's McCune's hand all along. He daren't name
him even now, the coward! The trick lies between McCune and young
Fisbee--the old man is innocent. Give me the pad. Not _almost_
overborne. There are three good days to work in, and, by the gods
of Perdition, if Rod McCune sees Congress it will be in his next
incarnation!"

He rapidly scribbled a few lines on the pad, and threw the sheets to
Meredith. "Get those telegrams to the Western Union office in a rush,
please. Read them first."

With a very red face Tom read them. One was addressed to H. Fisbee:

"You are relieved from the cares of editorship. You will turn over the
management of the 'Herald' to Warren Smith. You will give him the McCune
papers. If you do not, or if you destroy them, you cannot hide where I
shall not find you.

"JOHN HARKLESS."

The second was to Warren Smith: "Take possession 'Herald.' Dismiss H.
Fisbee. This your authority. Publish McCune papers so labelled which H.
Fisbee will hand you. Letter follows. Beat McCune.

"JOHN HARKLESS."

The author of the curt epistles tossed restlessly on his couch, but
the reader of them stared, incredulous and dumfounded, uncertain of
his command of gravity. His jaw fell, and his open mouth might have
betokened a being smit to imbecility; and, haply, he might be, for Helen
had written him from Plattville, pledging his honor to secrecy with the
first words, and it was by her command that he had found excuses for
not supplying his patient with all the papers which happened to contain
references to the change of date for the Plattville convention. And
Meredith had known for some time where James Fisbee had found a "young
relative" to be the savior of the "Herald" for his benefactor's sake.

"You mean--you--intend to--you discharge young Fisbee?" he stammered at
last.

"Yes! Let me have the answers the instant they come, will you, Tom?"
Then Harkless turned his face from the wall and spoke through his teeth:
"I mean to see H. Fisbee before many days; I want to talk to him!"

But, though he tossed and fretted himself into what the doctor
pronounced a decidedly improved state, no answer came to either telegram
that day or night. The next morning a messenger boy stumbled up the
front steps and handed the colored man, Jim, four yellow envelopes,
night messages. Three of them were for Harkle