“I—­have gotten very much interested in his story,” said Queed, which was certainly true enough.  “Where do people think that he is now?”

“Oh, in the West somewhere, living like a fat hog off Miss Weyland’s money.”

Queed’s heart lost a beat.  An instinct, swift as a reflex, turned him to the window again; he feared that his face might commit treason.  A curious contraction and hardening seemed to be going on inside of him, a chilling petrifaction, and this sensation remained; but in the next instant he felt himself under perfect control, and was calmly saying:—­

“Why, I thought the courts took all the money he had.”

“They took all they could find.  If you’ve studied high finance you’ll appreciate the distinction.”  Amiably West tapped the table-top with the long point of his pencil, and wished that Queed would restore him his privacy.  “Everybody thought at the time, you know, that he had a hundred thousand or so put away where the courts never got hold of it.  The general impression was that he’d somehow smuggled it over to the woman he’d been living with—­his wife”, he said.  “She died, I believe, but probably our friend Surface, when he got out, hadn’t the slightest trouble in putting his hands on the money.”

“No, I suppose not.  An interesting story, isn’t it?  You’ll telephone if you need anything to-night?”

“Oh, I shan’t need anything.  The page is shaping up very satisfactorily, I think.  Good-night, my dear fellow.”

Left alone, West picked up Queed’s closely-written sheets, and leaning back in his chair read them with the closest attention.  Involuntarily, his intellect paid a tribute to the writer as he read.  The article was masterly.  The argument was close and swift, the language impassioned, the style piquant.  “Where did he learn to write like that!” wondered West.  Here was the whole subject compressed into half a column, and so luminous a half column that the dullest could not fail to understand and admire.  Two sarcastic little paragraphs were devoted to stripping the tatters from the nakedness of the economy argument, and these Mr. Queed’s chief perused twice.

“The talk of a doctrinaire,” mused he presently.  “The closet philosopher’s ideas.  How far afield from the real situation ...”

It was a most fortunate thing, he reflected, that he himself had means of getting exact and accurate information at first hand.  Suppose that he had not, that, like some editors, he had simply passed this article in without examination and correction.  It would have made the Post ridiculous, and decidedly impaired its reputation for common sense and fair play.  Whatever should or should not be said, this was certainly no way to talk of honest men, who were trying to conserve the party and who differed from the Post only on an unimportant question of detail.