“What’s the verdict, Arthur?” asked Louise curiously.

“Why, I—­I believe the verdict isn’t rendered yet,” he hastily replied, and followed Mr. Merrick into the pressroom.

“Now, then,” cried Patsy, grabbing the major firmly, “you’ll not stir a step, sir, until you tell us the news!”

“What news, Patricia?” Inquired the old gentleman blandly.

“Who was Thursday Smith?”

“The identical individual he is now,” said the Major.

“Don’t prevaricate, sir!  Who was he?  What did he do?  What is his right name?”

“Is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, or are ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?”

“Be good, Daddy!  Tell us all about it,” said Patsy coaxingly.

“The man Thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of Robinson Crusoe’s man Friday.”

“Major, you’re trifling!”

“Or mayhap an ex-president of the United States, or forby the senator from Oklahoma.  Belike he was once minister to Borneo, an’ came home in a hurry an’ forgot who he was.  But John Merrick will be wanting me.”

He escaped and opened the door.  Then, with his hand on the knob, he turned and added: 

“Why don’t ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the fun for yerselves?  I suspect there’s an item in store for ye.”

Then he went in, and they took the hint and entered the pressroom in a fluttering group.  Fogerty stood with his hands in his pockets intently watching the Dwyer girls set type, while at his elbow Mr. Merrick was explaining in a casual voice how many “m’s” were required to make a newspaper column.  In another part of the long room Arthur Weldon was leaning over a table containing the half-empty forms, as if critically examining them.  Smith, arrayed in overalls and jumper, was cleaning and oiling the big press.

“A daily newspaper,” said the major, loudly, as he held up a warning finger to the bevy of nieces, behind whom Hetty’s pale face appeared, “means a daily grind for all concerned in it.  There’s no vacation for the paper, no hyphens, no skipping a day or two if it has a bad cold; it’s the tyrant that leads its slaves by the nose, metaphorically, and has no conscience.  Just as regularly as the world rolls ’round the press rolls out the newspaper, and human life or death makes little difference to either of the revolutionists.”

While he spoke the Major led the way across the room to the stereotyping plant, which brought his party to a position near the press.  Smith glanced at them and went on with his work.  It was not unusual to have the pressroom thus invaded.

Presently Fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, and stood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of the complicated machine.  Smith, feeling himself under observation, glanced up again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective Fogerty gave a cleverly assumed start and exclaimed: