der Sproule, proprietor of the Agony Parlors, three
floors up."

"Agony Parlors?" queried the visitor.

"Painless dentistry," explained Wayne. "Mr. Shearson handles all that
matter and sends it down to us."

"Marked 'Must,' I suppose," remarked Miss Elliot, not without malice.
"So the mystic 'Must' is not exclusively a chief-editorial prerogative?"

The editor-in-chief looked annoyed, thereby satisfying his visitor's
momentary ambition. "Hereafter, Mr. Wayne, all copy indorsed 'Must' is
to be referred to me," he directed.

"That kills the 'Must' thing," commented the city editor cheerfully.
"What about 'Must not'?"

"Another complication," laughed Esme. "I fear I'm peering into the dark
and secret places of journalism."

"For example, a story came in last night that was a hummer," said Wayne;
"about E.M. Pierce's daughter running down an apple-cart in her
sixty-horse-power car, and scattering dago, fruit, and all to the four
winds of Heaven. Robbins saw it, and he's the best reporter we have for
really funny stuff."

"Kathleen drives that car like a demon out on a spree," said Esme. "But
of course you wouldn't print anything unpleasant about it."

"Why not?" asked Wayne.

"Well, she belongs to our crowd,--Mr. Surtaine's friends, I mean,--and
it was accidental, I suppose, and so long as the man wasn't hurt--"

"Only a sprained shoulder."

"--and I'm sure Agnes would be more than willing to pay for the damage."

"Oh, yes. She asked the worth of his stock and then doubled it, gave him
the money, and drove off with her mud guards coquettishly festooned with
grapes. That's what made it such a good story."

"But, Mr. Wayne"--Esme's eyes were turned up to his pleadingly: "those
things are funny to tell. But they're so vulgar, in the paper. Think, if
it were your sister."

"If my sister went tearing through crowded streets at forty miles an
hour, I'd have her examined for homicidal mania. That Pierce girl will
kill some one yet. Even then, I suppose we won't print a word of it."

"What would stop us?" asked Hal.

"The fear of Elias M. Pierce. His 'Must not' is what kills this story."

"Let me see it."

"Oh, it isn't visible. But every editor in town knows too much to offend
the President of the Consolidated Employers' Organization, let alone his
practical control of the Dry Goods Union."

"You were at the staff breakfast yesterday, I believe, Mr. Wayne."

"What? Yes; of course I was."

"And you heard