From the boy at the entrance he learned that Mr. Marrineal had come in.

Doubtless he would find a summons on his desk. None was there. Perhaps Marrineal would come to him. He waited. Nothing. Taking up the routine of the day, he turned to his proofs, with a view to laying out his schedule.

The top one was his editorial on the strikers' cause.

Across it was blue-penciled the word "Killed."

Banneker snatched up the morning's issue. The editorial was not there.

In its place he read, from the top of the column: "And though all the winds of doctrine blow"--and so on, to the close of Milton's proud challenge, followed by:

"Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?"

For the strike editorial had been substituted one of Banneker's typical "mother-fetchers," as he termed them, very useful in their way, and highly approved by the local health authorities. This one was on the subject of pure milk. Its association with the excerpt from the Areopagitica (which, having been set for a standing head, was not cut out by the "Killed") set the final touch of irony upon the matter. Even in his fury Banneker laughed.

He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. It was not Marrineal's blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring's?

Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager's room.

"Did you kill this?"

"Yes." Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. "For God's sake, Mr.

Banneker--"

"I'm not going to hurt you--yet. By what right did you do it?"

"Orders."

"Marrineal's?"

"Yes."

With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner's office, pushed open the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning.

"Did you kill this editorial?"

Marrineal's frown changed to a smile. "Sit down, Mr. Banneker."

"Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?"

"Isn't your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?"

"It won't take more than five seconds for me to cease to be an employee," said Banneker grimly.

"Ah? I trust you're not thinking of resigning. By the way, some reporter called on me last week to confirm a rumor that you were about to resign.

Let me see; what paper? Ah; yes; it wasn't a newspaper, at least, not exactly. The Searchlight. I told her--it happened to be a woman--that the story was quite absurd."

Something in the nature of a cold trickle seemed to be flowing between Banneker's brain and his tongue. He said with effort, "Will you be good enough to answer my question?"

"Certainly. Mr. Banneker, that was an ill-advised editorial. Or, rather, an ill-timed one. I didn't wish it published until we had time to talk it over."

"We could have talked it over yesterday."

"But I understood that you were busy with callers yesterday. That charming Mrs. Eyre, who, by the way, is interested in the strikers, isn't she? Or was it the day before yesterday that she was here?"

The Searchlight! And now Io Eyre! No doubt of what Marrineal meant. The cold trickle had passed down Banneker's spine, and settled at his knees making them quite unreliable. Inexplicably it still remained to paralyze his tongue.

"We're reasonable men, you and I, Mr. Banneker," pursued Marrineal in his quiet, detached tones. "This is the first time I have ever interfered. You must do me the justice to admit that. Probably it will be the last. But in this case it was really necessary. Shall we talk it over later?"

"Yes," said Banneker listlessly.

In the hallway he ran into somebody, who cursed him, and then said, oh, he hadn't noticed who it was; Pop Edmonds. Edmonds disappeared into Marrineal's office. Banneker regained his desk and sat staring at the killed proof. He thought vaguely that he could appreciate the sensation of a man caught by an octopus. Yet Marrineal didn't look like an octopus.... What did he look like? What was that subtle resemblance which had eluded him in the first days of their acquaintanceship? That emanation of chill quietude; those stagnant eyes?

He had it now! It dated back to his boyhood days. A crawling terror which, having escaped from a menagerie, had taken refuge in a pool, and there fixed its grip upon an unfortunate calf, and dragged--dragged--dragged the shrieking creature, until it went under.

A crocodile.

His reverie was broken by the irruption of Russell Edmonds. An inch of the stem of the veteran's dainty little pipe was clenched firmly between his teeth; but there was no bowl.

"Where's the rest of your pipe?" asked Banneker, stupefied by this phenomenon.

"I've resigned," said Edmonds.

"God! I wish I could," muttered Banneker.

CHAPTER XVI

Explanations were now due to two people, Io and Willis Enderby. As to Io, Banneker felt an inner conviction of strength. Hopeless though he was of making his course appear in any other light than that of surrender, nevertheless he could tell himself that it was really done for her, to protect her name. But he could not tell her this. He knew too well what the answer of that high and proud spirit of hers would be; that if their anomalous relationship was hampering his freedom, dividing his conscience, the only course of honor was for them to stop seeing each other at no matter what cost of suffering; let Banneker resign, if that were his rightful course, and tell The Searchlight to do its worst.

Yes; such would be Io's idea of playing the game. He could not force it.

He must argue with her, if at all, on the plea of expediency. And to her forthright and uncompromising fearlessness, expediency was in itself the poorest of expedients. At the last, there was her love for him to appeal to. But would Io love where she could not trust?... He turned from that thought.

As an alternative subject for consideration, Willis Enderby was hardly more assuring and even more perplexing. True, Banneker owed no explanation to him; but for his own satisfaction of mind he must have it out with the lawyer. He had a profound admiration for Enderby and knew that this was in a measure reciprocated by a patent and almost wistful liking, curious in a person as reserved as Enderby. He cherished a vague impression that somehow Enderby would understand. Or, at least, that he would want to understand. Consequently he was not surprised when the lawyer called him up and asked him to come that evening to the Enderby house. He went at once to the point.

"Banneker, do you know anything of an advertisement by the striking garment-workers, which The Patriot first accepted and afterward refused to print?"

"Yes."

"Are you at liberty to tell me why?"

"In confidence."

"That is implied."

"Mr. Marrineal ordered it killed."

"Ah! It was Marrineal himself. The advocate of the Common People! The friend of Labor!"

"Admirable campaign material," observed Banneker composedly, "if it were possible to use it."