r
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 hone