"Which, of course, it isn't; being confidential," Enderby capped the thought. "I hear that Russell Edmonds has resigned."

"That is true."

"In consequence of the rejected advertisement?"

Banneker sat silent so long that his host began: "Perhaps I shouldn't have asked that--"

"I'm going to tell you exactly what occurred," said Banneker quietly, and outlined the episode of the editorial, suppressing, however, Marrineal's covert threat as to Io and The Searchlight. "And _I_ haven't resigned. So you see what manner of man I am," he concluded defiantly.

"You mean a coward? I don't think it."

"I wish I were sure!" burst out Banneker.

"Ah? That's hard, when the soul doesn't know itself. Is it money?" The crisp, clear voice had softened to a great kindliness. "Are you in debt, my boy?"

"No. Yes; I am. I'd forgotten. That doesn't matter."

"Apparently not." The lawyer's heavy brows went up, "More serious than money," he commented.

Banneker recognized the light of suspicion, comprehension, confirmation in the keen and fine visage turned upon him. Enderby continued:

"Well, there are matters that can be talked of and other matters that can't be talked of. But if you ever feel that you want the advice of a man who has seen human nature on a good many sides, and has learned not to judge too harshly of it, come to me. The only counsel I ever give gratis to those who can pay for it"--he smiled faintly--"is the kind that may be too valuable to sell."

"But I'd like to know," said Banneker slowly, "why you don't think me a yellow dog for not resigning."

"Because, in your heart you don't think yourself one. Speaking of that interesting species, I suppose you know that your principal is working for the governorship."

"Will he get the nomination?"

"Quite possibly. Unless I can beat him for it. I'll tell you privately I may be the opposing candidate. Not that the party loves me any too much; but I'm at least respectable, fairly strong up-State, and they'll take what they have to in order to beat Marrineal, who is forcing himself down their throats."

"A pleasant prospect for me," gloomed Banneker. "I'll have to fight you."

"Go ahead and fight," returned the other heartily. "It won't be the first time."

"At least, I want you to know that it'll be fair fight."

"No 'Junior-called-me-Bob' trick this time?" smiled Enderby.

Banneker flushed and winced. "No," he answered. "Next time I'll be sure of my facts. Good-night and good luck. I hope you beat us."

As he turned the corner into Fifth Avenue a thought struck him. He made the round of the block, came up the side of the street opposite, and met a stroller having all the ear-marks of the private detective. To think of a man of Judge Enderby's character being continuously "spotted" for the mean design of an Ely Ives filled Banneker with a sick fury. His first thought was to return and tell Enderby. But to what purpose? After all, what possible harm could Ives's plotting and sneaking do to a man of the lawyer's rectitude? Banneker returned to The House With Three Eyes and his unceasing work.

The interview with Enderby had lightened his spirit. The older man's candor, his tolerance, his clear charity of judgment, his sympathetic comprehension were soothing and reassuring. But there was another trouble yet to be faced. It was three days since the editorial appeared and he had heard no word from Io. Each noon when he called on the long-distance 'phone, she had been out, an unprecedented change from her eager waiting to hear the daily voice on the wire. Should he write? No; it was too difficult and dangerous for that. He must talk it out with her, face to face, when the time came.

Meantime there was Russell Edmonds. He found the veteran cleaning out his desk preparatory to departure.

"You can't know how it hurts to see you go, Pop," he said sadly. "What's your next step?"

"The Sphere. They want me to do a special series, out around the country."

"Aren't they pretty conservative for your ideas?"

Edmonds, ruminating over a pipe even smaller and more fragile than the one sacrificed to his rage and disgust, the day of his resignation, gave utterance to a profound truth:

"What's the difference whether a newspaper is radical or conservative, Ban, if it tells the truth? That's the whole test and touchstone; to give news honestly. The rest will take care of itself. Compared to us The Sphere crowd are conservative. But they're honest. And they're not afraid."

"Yes. They're honest, and not afraid--because they don't have to be,"

said Banneker, in a tone so somber that his friend said quickly:

"I didn't mean that for you, son."

"Well, if I've gone wrong, I've got my punishment before me," pursued the other with increased gloom. "Having to work for Marrineal and further his plans, after knowing him as I know him now--that's a refined species of retribution, Pop."

"I know; I know. You've got to stick and wait your chance, and hold your following until you can get your own newspaper. Then," said Russell Edmonds with the glory of an inspired vision shining in his weary eyes, "you can tell 'em all to go to hell. Oh, for a paper of our own kind that's really independent; that don't care a hoot for anything except to get the news and get it straight, and interpret it straight; that don't have to be afraid of anything but not being honest!"

"Pop," said Banneker, spiritlessly, "what's the use? How do we know we aren't chasing a rainbow? How do we know people _want_ an honest paper or would know one if they saw it?"

"My God, son! Don't talk like that," implored the veteran. "That's the one heresy for which men in our game are eternally damned--and deserve it."

"All right. I know it. I don't mean it, Pop. I'm not adopting Marrineal's creed. Not just yet."

"By the way, Marrineal was asking for you this morning."

"Was he? I'll look him up. Perhaps he's going to fire me. I wish he would."

"Catch him!" grunted the other, reverting to his task. "More likely going to raise your salary."

As between the two surmises, Edmonds's was the nearer the truth. Urbane as always, the proprietor of The Patriot waved his editor to a seat, remarking, "I hope you'll sit down this time," the slightly ironical tinge to the final words being, in the course of the interview, his only reference to their previous encounter. Wondering dully whether Marrineal could have any idea of the murderous hatred which he inspired, Banneker took the nearest chair and waited. After some discussion as to the policy of the paper in respect to the strike, which was on the point of settlement by compromise, Marrineal set his delicate fingers point to point and said:

"I want to talk to you about the future."

"I'm listening," returned Banneker uncompromisingly.

"Your ultimate ambition is to own and control a newspaper of your own, isn't it?"

"Why do you think that?"

Marrineal's slow, sparse smile hardly moved his lips. "It's in character that you should. What else is there for you?"

"Well?"

"Have you ever thought of The Patriot?"

Involuntarily Banneker straightened in his chair. "Is The Patriot in the market?"

"Hardly. That isn't what I have in mind."

"Will you kindly be more explicit?"