eriodical. No, he had not seen it aboard the train;
there were so many of these new magazines, it was hard to choose. He
smiled at first, that editor's note was so preposterous, so plainly
sensational; or was it malicious? He re-read it, knitting his brows. Who
was this writer Daniels? His mind ran back to that day aboard the
_Aquila_. Aside from the Morgansteins and Mrs. Weatherbee, there had been
no one else in the party until the lieutenant was picked up at Bremerton,
after the adventure was told. But Daniels--he glanced back to be sure of
the author's name--James Daniels. Now he remembered. That was the
irrepressible young fellow who had secured the photographs in Snoqualmie
Pass at the time of the accident to the Morganstein automobile; who had
later interviewed Mrs. Weatherbee on the train. Had he then sought her at
her hotel, ostensibly to present her with a copy of the newspaper in which
those illustrations were published, and so ingratiated himself far enough
in her favor to gather another story from her?

Tisdale went over to a chair near the window and began to go over those
abridged columns. He turned the page, and his lips set grimly. At last he
closed the magazine and looked off through the drifting snow. He had been
grossly misrepresented, and the reason was clear.

This editor, struggling to establish a new periodical, had used Daniels'
material to attract the public eye. He may even have had political
ambitions and aimed deeper to strike the administration through him. He
may have taken this method to curry favor with certain moneyed men. Still,
still, what object had there been in leaving Weatherbee completely out of
the story? Weatherbee, who should have carried the leading role; who,
lifting the adventure high above the sensational, had made it something
fine.

Again his thoughts ran back to that cruise on the _Aquila_. He saw that
group on the after-deck; Rainier lifting southward like a phantom mountain
over the opal sea; and westward the Olympics, looming clear-cut, vivid as
a scene in the tropics; the purplish blue of the nearer height sharply
defined against the higher amethyst slope that marked the gorge of the
Dosewallups. This setting had brought the tragedy to his mind, and to
evade the questions Morganstein pressed, he had commenced to relate the
adventure. But afterwards he had found himself going into the more
intimate detail with a hope of reviving some spark of appreciation of
David i