e
complications of men, and the tragic destruction of women. And he beheld
himself, fast in its grip.

He thrust the proof into the tube, scrawled the "O.K." order on it for
the morrow, and hurried away from the office as from a place accursed.

That night conscience struck at him once more, making a weapon of words
from the book of a dead master. He had been reading "Beauchamp's
Career"; and, seeking refuge from the torture of thought in its magic,
he came upon the novelist-philosopher's damning indictment of modern
journalism:

_"And this Press, declaring itself independent, can hardly walk for
fear of treading on an interest here, an interest there. It cannot
have a conscience. It is a bad guide, a false guardian; its abject
claim to be our national and popular interpreter--even that is
hollow and a mockery. It is powerful only when subservient. An
engine of money, appealing to the sensitiveness of money, it has no
connection with the mind of the nation. And that it is not of, but
apart from the people, may be seen when great crises come--in
strong gales the power of the Press collapses; it wheezes like a
pricked pigskin of a piper."_

Hal flung the book from him. But its accusations pursued him through the
gates of sleep, and poisoned his rest.

In the morning he had recovered his balance, and with it his dogged
determination to see the matter through. He forced himself to read the
leading editorial, finding spirit even to admire the dexterity with
which he had held out the promise of good behavior to the business
interests, whilst pretending to a sturdy independence. Shearson met him
at the entrance to the building, beaming.

"That'll bring business," said the advertising manager. "I've had half a
dozen telephones already about it."

"That's good," replied Hal half-heartedly.

"Yes, _sir_," pursued the advertising manager: "I can smell money in
the air to-day. And, by the way, I've got a tip that, for a little mild
apology, E.M. Pierce will withdraw both his suits."

"I'll think about it," promised Hal. He was rather surprised at the
intensity of his own relief from the prospect of the court ordeal. At
least, he was getting his price.

McGuire Ellis was, for once, not asleep, though there was no work on his
desk when Hal entered the sanctum.

"Veltman's quit," was his greeting.

"I'm not surprised," said Hal.

"Then you've seen the editorial page th