Harrington stiffened instinctively. He did not believe that the amazing, splendid offer was genuine. But had he felt complete faith that the young man beside him was in earnest, he would have been proof against the lure of even a touring car, for he had been touched at his most sensitive point. His artistic capacity was a.s.sailed, and his was just the nature to take proper umbrage at the imputation. More; over, though this was a minor consideration, he resented slightly the allusion to reversible cuffs. Hence the answer sprang to his lips:

"Can you not trust me to write the notice, Mr. Dryden?"

"She would like me to write it."

"Ah, I see! Was that what she whispered to you this morning?"

Dryden hesitated. "Certainly words to that effect. Let me ask you in turn, can you not trust me? If so, the automobile is yours and----"

Harrington laughed coldly. "I'm sorry not to oblige you, Mr. Dryden.

If you understood my point of view you would see that what you propose is out of the question. I was commissioned to write up the Ward-Upton obsequies, and I alone must do so."

As he spoke they were pa.s.sing at a lively gait through the picturesquely shaded main street of a small country town and were almost abreast of the only tavern of the place, which wore the appearance of having been recently remodelled and repainted to meet the demands of modern road travel.

"Your point of view? What is your point of view?"

Before Harrington had time to begin to put into speech the statement of his principles there was a sudden loud explosion beneath them like the discharge of a huge pistol, and the machine came abruptly to a stop. So unexpected and startling was the shock that the reporter sprang from the car and in his nervous annoyance at once vented the hasty conclusion at which he arrived in the words: "I see; this is a trap, and you are a modern highwayman whose stunt will make good Sunday reading in cold print." He wore a sarcastic smile, and his sharp eyes gleamed like a ferret's.

Dryden regarded him humorously with his steady gaze. "Gently there; it's only a tire gone. Do you suspect me of trying to trifle with the sacred liberties of the press?"

"I certainly did, sir. It looks very much like it."

"Then you agree that I chose a very inappropriate place for my purpose. 'The Old Homestead' there is furnished with a telephone, a livery-stable, and all the modern protections against highway robbery.

Besides, there is a cold chicken and a bottle of choice claret in the basket with which to supplement the larder of our host of the inn. We will take luncheon while my chauffeur is placing us on an even keel again, and no time will be lost. You will even have ten minutes in which to put pen to paper while the table is being laid."

Harrington as a nervous man was no less promptly generous in his impulses when convinced of error than he was quick to scent out a hostile plot. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Dryden. I see I was mistaken."

He thrust out a lean hand by way of amity. "Can't I help?"

"Oh, no, thank you. My man will attend to everything."

"You see I got the idea to begin with and then the explosion following so close upon your offer----"

"Quite so," exclaimed Dryden. "A suspicious coincidence, I admit." He shook the proffered fingers without a shadow of resentment. "I dare say my dust-coat and goggles give me quite the highwayman effect," he continued jollily.

"They sort of got on my nerves, I guess." Under the spell of his generous impulse various bits of local color flattering to his companion began to suggest themselves to Harrington for his article, and he added: "I'll take advantage of that suggestion of yours and get to work until luncheon is ready."

Some fifteen minutes later they were seated opposite to each other at an appetizing meal. As Dryden finished his first gla.s.s of claret, he asked:

"Did you know Richard Upton?"

"The man who was killed? Not personally. But I have read about him in the society papers."

"Ah!" There was a deep melancholy in the intonation which caused the reporter to look at his companion a little sharply. For a moment Dryden stirred in his chair as though about to make some comment, and twisted the morsel of bread at his fingers' ends into a small pellet.

But he poured out another gla.s.s of claret for each of them and said:

"He was the salt of the earth."

"Tell me about him. I should be glad to know. I might----"

"There's so little to tell--it was princ.i.p.ally charm. He was one of the most unostentatious, unselfish, high-minded, consistent men I ever knew. Completely a gentleman in the finest sense of that overworked word."

"That's very interesting. I should be glad----"

Dryden shook his head. "You didn't know him well enough. It was like the delicacy of the rose--finger it and it falls to pieces. No offence to you, of course. I doubt my own ability to do him justice, well as I knew him. But you put a stopper on that--and you were right. My kind regards," he said, draining his second gla.s.s of claret. "The laborer is worthy of his hire, the artist must not be interfered with. It was an impertinence of me to ask to do your work."

Harrington's eyes gleamed. "It's pleasant to be appreciated--to have one's point of view comprehended. It isn't pleasant to b.u.t.t in where you're not wanted, but there's something bigger than that involved, the----"

"Quite so; it was a cruel bribe; and many men in your shoes would not have been proof against it."

"And you were in dead earnest, too, though for a moment I couldn't believe it. But the point is--and that's what I mean--that the public--gentlemen like you and ladies like the handsome one who looked daggers at me this morning--don't realize that the world is bound to have the news on its breakfast-table and supper-table, and that when a man is in the business and knows his business and is trying to do the decent thing and the acceptable artistic thing, too, if I do say it, he is ent.i.tled to be taken seriously and--and trusted. There are incompetent men--rascals even--in my calling. What I contend is that you'd no right to a.s.sume that I wouldn't do the inevitable thing decently merely because you saw me there. For, if you only knew it, I was saying to myself at that very moment that for a funeral it was the most tastefully handled I ever attended."

"It is the inevitable thing; that's just it. My manners were bad to begin to with, and later--" Dryden leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his head between his hands, scanning his eager companion.

"Don't mention it. You see, it was a matter of pride with me. And now it's up to me to state that if there's anything in particular you'd like me to mention about the deceased gentleman or lady----"

Dryden sighed at the reminder, "One of the loveliest and most pure-hearted of women."

"That shall go down," said the reporter, mistaking the apostrophe for an answer, and he drew a note-book from his side pocket.

Dryden raised his hand by way of protest. "I was merely thinking aloud. No, we must trust you."

Harrington bowed. He hesitated, then by way of noticing the plural allusion in the speech added: "It was your young lady's look which wounded me the most. And she said something. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what she said? It wasn't flattering, I'm sure of that, but it was on the tip of her tongue. I admit I'm mildly curious as to what it was."

Dryden reflected a moment. "You've written your article?" he asked, indicating the note-book.

"It's all mapped out in my mind, and I've finished the introduction."

"I won't ask to see it because we trust you. But I'll make a compact with you." Dryden held out a cigar to his adversary and proceeded to light one for himself. "Supposing what the lady said referred to something which you have written there, would you agree to cut it out?"

Harrington looked gravely knowing. "You think you can tell what I have written?" he asked, tapping his note-book.

Dryden took a puff. "Very possibly not. I am merely supposing. But in case the substance of her criticism--for she did criticise--should prove to be almost word for word identical with something in your handwriting--would you agree?"

Harrington shrugged his shoulders. "Against the automobile as a stake, if it proves not to be?" he inquired by way of expressing his incredulity.

"Gladly."

"Let it be rather against another luncheon with you as agreeable as this."

"Done. I will write her exact language here on this piece of paper and then we will exchange copy."

Harrington sat pleasantly amused, yet puzzled, while Dryden wrote and folded the paper. Then he proffered his note-book with nervous alacrity. "Read aloud until you come to the place," he said jauntily.

Dryden scanned for a moment the memoranda, then looked up. "It is all here at the beginning, just as she prophesied," he said, with a promptness which was almost radiant, and he read as follows: "The dual funeral of Miss Josephine Ward, the leading society girl, and Richard Upton, the well-known club man, took place this morning at--" He paused and said: "Read now what you have there."

Harrington flushed, then scowled, but from perplexity. He was seeking enlightenment before he proceeded further, so he unfolded the paper with a deliberation unusual to him, which afforded time to Dryden to remark with clear precision:

"Those were her very words."