ies, as did scores of their fellow leading citizens. Ellis,
stricken down, was serving his employer well.

Not that Hal knew this, nor, had he known it, would have cared. Sick at
heart, he waited about the hospital reception room for such meager hopes
as the surgeons could give him, until an urgent summons compelled him to
go to the office. Wayne had telephoned for him half a dozen times,
finally leaving a message that he must see him on a point in the
tenement-ownership story, to be run on the morrow.

Wayne, at the moment of Hal's arrival, was outside the rail talking to a
visitor. On the copy-book beside his desk was stuck an illustration
proof, inverted. Idly Hal turned it, and stood facing his final and
worst ordeal of principle. The half-tone picture, lovely, suave,
alluring, smiled up into his eyes from above its caption:--

"_Miss Esme Elliot, Society Belle and Owner of
No. 9 Sadler's Shacks, Known as the Pest-Egg."_

"You've seen it," said Wayne's voice at his elbow.

"Yes."

"Well; it was that I wanted to ask you about."

"Ask it," said Hal, dry-lipped.

"I knew you were a--a friend of Miss Elliot's. We can kill it out yet.
It--it isn't absolutely necessary to the story," he added, pityingly.

He turned and looked away from a face that had grown swiftly old under
his eyes. In Hal's heart there was a choking rush of memories: the
conquering loveliness of Esme; her sweet and loyal womanliness and
comradeship of the night before; the half-promise in her tones as she
had bid him come to her; the warm pressure of her arms fending him from
the sight of his friend's blood; and, far back, her voice saying so
confidently, "I'd trust you," in answer to her own supposititious test
as to what he would do if a news issue came up, involving her
happiness.

Blotting these out came another picture, a swathed head, quiet upon a
pillow. In that moment Hal knew that he was forever done with
suppressions and evasions. Nevertheless, he intended to be as fair to
Esme as he would have been to any other person under attack.

"You're sure of the facts?" he asked Wayne.

"Certain."

"How long has she owned it?"

"Oh, years. It's one of those complicated trusteeships."

Hope sprang up in Hal's soul. "Perhaps she doesn't know about it."

"Isn't she morally bound to know? We've assumed moral responsibility in
the other trusteeships. Of course, if you want to make a difference--"
Wayne, again wholly the journalist,