itorial office, hardly able yet to get their bearings.

"I shall give myself up to the authorities," decided Dr. Elliot. He was
deadly pale, but of unshaken nerve.

"Why?" cried Hal. "It was no fault of yours."

"Rules of the game. Well, young man, you have a paper to get out for
to-morrow, though the heavens fall. Good-night."

Hal gripped at his hand. "I don't know how to thank you--" he began.

"Don't try, then," was the gruff retort. "Where's Mac?"

He turned to McGuire Ellis's desk to bid that sturdy toiler good-night.
There, dimly seen through the flickering candlelight, the undisputed
Short-Distance Slumber Champion of the World sat, his head on his arms,
in his familiar and favorite attitude of snatching a few moments'
respite from a laborious existence.

"Will you _look_ at _that!_" cried the physician in utmost amazement.

At the sight a wild surge of mirth overwhelmed Hal's hair-trigger
nerves. He began to laugh, with strange, quick catchings of the breath:
to laugh tumultuously, rackingly, unendurably.

"Stop it!" shouted Dr. Elliot, and smote him a sledge-blow between the
shoulders.

For the moment the hysteria was jarred out of Hal. He gasped, gurgled,
and took a step toward his assistant.

"Hey, Mac! Wake up! You've spilled your ink."

[Illustration: "DON'T GO NEAR HIM. DON'T LOOK"]

Before he could speak or move further, Esme Elliot's arms were about
him. Her face was close to his. He could feel the strong pressure of
her breast against him as she forced him back.

"No, no!" she was pleading, in a swift half-whisper. "Don't go near him.
Don't look. _Please_ don't. Come away."

He set her aside. A candlelight flared high. From Ellis's desk trickled
a little stream. Dr. Elliot was already bending over the slackened form.

"So it wasn't ink," said Hal slowly. "Is he dead, Dr. Elliot?"

"No," snapped the other. "Esme, bandages! Quick! Your petticoat! That'll
do. Get another candle. Dr. Surtaine, help me lift him. There! Surtaine,
bring water. _Do you hear?_ Hurry!"

When Hal returned, uncle and niece were working with silent deftness
over Ellis, who lay on the floor. The wounded man opened his eyes upon
his employer's agonized face.

"Did he get the press?" he gasped.

"Keep quiet," ordered the Doctor. "Don't speak."

"Did he get the press?" insisted Ellis obstinately.

"Mac! Mac!" half sobbed Hal, bending over him. "I thought you were
dead." And his tears fell on the blood-streaked