"What paper?"

"The _Weekly Call_. The editor sent me with instructions to ask you if
this is true?"

He handed a proof-slip to the merchant, and Henry saw Witherspoon's
face darken as he read it. The next moment the great merchant stormed:
"There isn't a word of truth in it. It is an infamous lie from start
to finish."

"I told him I didn't think it was true," said the young man, "but he
talked as if he believed it; remarked that you never advertised with
him anyway."

"Advertise with him! Why, I didn't know until this minute that such a
paper existed. How much of an advertisement does he expect?"

"Hold on a moment!" Henry cried. "Let me kick this fellow into the
street."

"Nothing rash," said Witherspoon, putting out his hand. "Sit down,
Henry. It will be all right. It's something you don't understand." And
speaking to the visitor, he added: "Send me your rates."

"I have them here, sir," he replied, shying out of Henry's reach. He
handed a card to Witherspoon.

"Let me see, now. Will half a column for a year be sufficient?"

"Well, that's rather a small ad, sir."

Henry got up again. "I think I'd better kick him into the street."

"No, no; sit down there. Let me manage this. Here." The blackmailer
had retreated to the door. "You go back to your editor and tell him
that I will put in a column for one year. Wait. Has anybody seen
this?" he added, holding up the proof-slip.

"Nobody, sir, and I will have the type distributed as soon as I get
back."

"See that you do. Tell Brooks; he will send you the copy. Now get out.
Infamous scoundrel!" he said when the fellow was gone. "But don't say
anything about it at home, for it really amounts to nothing."

He tore the proof-slip into small fragments and threw them into the
spittoon.

"What is it all about?" Henry asked.

"Oh, it's the foulest of fabrication. About a year ago there came a
widow from Washington with a letter from one of our friends, and asked
for a position in the store. Well, we gave her employment, and--and it
is about her; but it really amounts to nothing."

"Why, then, didn't you let me kick the scoundrel into the street?"

"My dear boy, to a man who has the money it is easier to pay than to
explain. The public is greedy for scandal, but looks with suspicion
and coldness upon a correction. One is sweet; the other is tasteless.
The rapid acquisition of wealth is associated with some mysterious
crime, and men who have failed in wil