little circle gladly after Stanton's sure report; and there would have
been chance after chance for him to make good with us. But no; he
preferred the pose of aloofness, and his face betrayed that he was
ashamed of that one night's weakness. He never alluded to his evening
with Stanton; and when Minckle, who was certain the ice had been broken,
put his arm around his shoulder the next day, he looked and drawled,

"I say, old top, I wish you wouldn't."

Of course that finished him with us.

"He can go to the devil," we said.

We wanted him fired, obliterated; but the very next evening there was a
murder in Harlem, and old Hanscher sent Shelby to cover it, and his
first-page story was the talk of the town. We were sports enough to tell
him what a wonderful thing he had done. He only smiled, said "Thanks,"
and went on at his typewriter.

II

It was shortly after this that Marguerite Davis assailed New York with
her beauty--a young actress with a wealth of hair and the kind of eyes
you dream of. She captured the critics and the public alike. Her name
was on every lip and the Broadway theater where she starred in "The
Great Happiness" was packed to the doors. Such acclaim was never
received by any young woman. We heard that Shelby went every night for a
week to see some part of the play--he couldn't, because of his
assignments, view the entire performance; and it was Minckle who, after
the piece had been running a month in New York, found a photograph of
the star in the top drawer of Shelby's desk. He had gone there for a
match--you know how informal we newspaper men are. Moreover, the picture
had been autographed.

"I wish you wouldn't touch that." It was Shelby's voice. Of course he
had come in at the very moment poor Minckle made his startling
discovery.

With quiet dignity, and with a flush on his cheeks, Shelby took the
photograph from Minckle's hand, and replaced it in the drawer.

"I always keep matches on top of my desk--when I have any," he said, in
a voice like ice.

There was no denying his justified anger. No man likes to have his heart
secrets disclosed; and Shelby knew that even the Associated Press could
not give more publicity to the discovery than Minckle could. He
dreaded--and justly, I think--the wagging of heads that would be noticed
from now on, the pitiless interest in his amour.

Stanton was the only one of us, except myself, later, who ever was
privileged, if you care to put it that wa