ave of his paper's conventions, the man without standards other
than those which were made for him by the terms of his employment, who
would go only because his proprietors would have him go: and the grin
which he turned up to Banneker was malignant and scornful. Already the
circle about Ely Ives, who was still drinking eagerly, had melted away.
Glidden, Mallory, Gale, Andreas, and a dozen others of his oldest
associates were at the door, not talking as they would have done had
some "big story" broken at that hour, but moving in a chill silence and
purposefully like men seeking relief from an unendurable atmosphere. The
deadly suspicion of the truth struck in upon the guest of honor; they,
his friends, were going because they could no longer take part in
honoring him. His mind groped, terrified and blind, among black shadows.

Marrineal, for once allowing discomposure to ruffle his
imperturbability, rose to check the exodus.

"Gentlemen! One moment, if you please. As soon as--"

The rest was lost to Banneker as he beheld Edmonds rear his spare form
up from his chair a few paces away. Reckless of ceremony now, the
central figure of the feast rose.

"Edmonds! Pop!"

The veteran stopped, turning the slow, sad judgment of his eyes upon the
other.

"What is it?" appealed Banneker. "What's happened? Tell me."

"Willis Enderby is dead."

The query, which forced itself from Banneker's lips, was a
self-accusation. "By his own hand?"

"By yours," answered Edmonds, and strode from the place.

Groping, Banneker's fingers encountered a bottle, closed about it, drew
it in. He poured and drank. He thought it wine. Not until the reeking
stab of brandy struck to his brain did he realize the error.... All
right. Brandy. He needed it. He was going to make a speech. What speech?
How did it begin.... What was this that Marrineal was saying? "In view
of the tragic news.... Call off the speech-making?" Not at all! He,
Banneker, must have his chance. He could explain everything.

Brilliantly, convincingly to his own mind, he began. It was all right;
only the words in their eagerness to set forth the purity of his
motives, the unimpeachable rectitude of his standards, became confused.
Somebody was plucking at his arm. Ives? All right? Ives was a good
fellow, after all.... Yes: he'd go home--with Ives. Ives would
understand.

All the way back to The House With Three Eyes he explained himself; any
fair-minded man would see that he