he style of the articles remained intact; they
might have passed equally for the work of Rickman or of Jewdwine.

"I suppose," he said helplessly, "it is a little short."

"Short? You weren't bound to make it long; but there was no occasion
to be so contemptuous."

"Contemptuous? Good God!"

"That's what it amounts to when you're so insufferably polite."

Oh yes he recognized it, the diabolical urbanity that had seemed the
very choicest method of dealing with Mr. Fulcher.

"Politeness was not exactly all you led us to expect from you."

He passed his hand wearily over his forehead and his eyes. Miss Roots
had a moment of compunction. She thought of all that he had done for
her. He had delivered her from her labours in the Museum; he had
introduced her to the young men of _The Planet_, and had made Maddox
send her many books to review; he had lifted her from the obscurity
that threatened to engulf her. And he had done more for her than this.
He had given her back her youth and intellect; he had made her life a
joy instead of a terror to her. But Miss Roots was just. The agony on
his face would have melted her heart, but for another agony that she
saw.

"If the poor boy knew that _you_ had written that paragraph--"

"He needn't know unless some kind friend goes and tells him. It isn't
signed."

"No. I don't wonder that you were ashamed to put your name to it."

He rose to go. She looked up at him with a queer little look, half
penetrating and half pleading, and held out her hand.

"Well," she said, "what am I to say if he asks me if you wrote it? Can
you deny it?"

"No," he said curtly, "I can't deny it."

"And you can't explain it?"

"No, and I can't explain it. Surely," he said with a horrible attempt
at laughter, "it speaks for itself."

"It does indeed, Keith."

And Maddox, to whom Miss Roots related the substance of that
interview, echoed her sentiment.

"It does indeed."

Of all that brilliant band of young men lured by journalism to ruin
they looked on their Rickman as the most splendid, the most tragic.

CHAPTER LXVIII

Up till now it had never occurred to Rickman that his connection with
_Metropolis_ could directly damage him, still less that Jewdwine could
personally inflict a blow. But the injury now done to him was
monstrous and intolerable; Jewdwine had hurt him in a peculiarly
delicate and shrinking place. Because his nature was not originally
magnificent in virtue of anot