“Nothing, except that I’ve found one square man in this village.  One square guy is a pretty big percentage in a town the size of Buffalo.  Corrigan wouldn’t let you see the depot if I wasn’t along.  Put on your coat and come with me—­yes, and bring a couple of hired men if it will make you feel any better.”

At the depot he called the baggage-master to him, and said: 

“Mr. Corrigan, this is Mr. Burns, the city editor of The Intelligencer.”

“That’s what he told me,” grinned the Irishman, utterly ignoring the young editor; “but you didn’t give him no references, and I wouldn’t take a chance.”

Burns maintained a dignified silence; he said little even when the contents of the trunk were displayed to him.  Nor did he open his mouth on the way back to the office.  But when he was seated at his desk and had read Anderson’s copy he spoke.

“This is the rottenest story ever turned in at this office,” said he.

“I know it is,” Paul agreed, frankly, then explained his difficulty in writing it.

“I’ll do it myself,” Burns told him.  “Now, you go home and report to-morrow.”

A very tired but a very happy young man routed out the landlady of a cheap boarding-house that night and hugged her like a bear, explaining joyously that he had done a great big thing.  He waltzed her down the hall and back, while she clutched wildly at her flapping flannel wrapper and besought him to think of her other boarders.  He waltzed her out of her bedroom slippers, gave her a smacking big kiss on her wrinkled cheek, then left her, breathless and scandalized, but all aflutter.

The city had read the story when Anderson awoke the next morning, for The Intelligencer had made a clean “beat,” and Burns had played up the story tremendously, hence it was with jumping pulses that Paul scanned the front page of that journal.  The further he read, however, the greater grew his indignation.

The history of Mabel Wilkes, under the magic touch of Burns, had, to be sure, become a wonderful, tragic story; but nowhere in it was mention made of Paul Anderson.  In the patient and ingenious solution of the mystery of the girl’s identity no credit was given to him.  The cleverness and the perseverance of The Buffalo Intelligencer was exploited, its able reportorial staff was praised, its editorial shrewdness extolled, but that was all.  When he had concluded reading the article Anderson realized that it was no more than a boost for the city editor, who it was plain to be seen, had uncovered the story bit by bit, greatly to the confusion of the police and the detective bureau.

It astounded as well as angered Paul to realize how cleverly Burns had covered him up, therefore the sense of injustice was strong in him when he entered the office.  His enemy recognized his mood, and seemed to gloat over it.

“That was good work you did,” he purred, “and I’ll keep you on as long as you show ability.  Of course you can’t write yet, so I’ll let you cover real-estate transactions and the market.  I’ll send for you when you’re needed.”