s breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken
something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help."

Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue.

"You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!"

She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to
me. We 've never done you any harm."

"But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough."

He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the
fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with
teeth and nails. She was pallid with fury, and it was all he could do to
protect himself and yet not injure her. Finally, when her anger had
taken her strength, he succeeded in getting out. He flew down the
hall-way and out of the front door, the woman's screams following him.
He did not pause to read the precious letter until he was safe in his
room at the Continental Hotel. Then he sprang to his feet, crying,
"Thank God! thank God! I was right, and the _Universe_ shall have a
sensation. The brother is the thief, and Berry Hamilton is an innocent
man. Hurrah! Now, who is it that has come on a wild-goose chase? Who is
it that ought to handle his idea carefully? Heigho, Saunders my man, the
drinks 'll be on you, and old Skaggsy will have done some good in the
world."

XVII

A YELLOW JOURNAL

Mr. Skaggs had no qualms of conscience about the manner in which he had
come by the damaging evidence against Maurice Oakley. It was enough for
him that he had it. A corporation, he argued, had no soul, and therefore
no conscience. How much less, then, should so small a part of a great
corporation as himself be expected to have them?

He had his story. It was vivid, interesting, dramatic. It meant the
favour of his editor, a big thing for the _Universe_, and a fatter
lining for his own pocket. He sat down to put his discovery on paper
before he attempted anything else, although the impulse to celebrate was
very strong within him.

He told his story well, with an eye to every one of its salient points.
He sent an alleged picture of Berry Hamilton as he had appeared at the
time of his arrest. He sent a picture of the Oakley home and of the
cottage where the servant and his family had been so happy. There was a
strong pen-picture of the man, Oakley, grown haggard and morose from
carrying his guilty secret, of his confusion when confronted with the
supposed knowledge of