“What paper?”

“The Weekly Call.  The editor sent me with instructions to ask you if this is true?”

He handed a proof-slip to the merchant, and Henry saw Witherspoon’s face darken as he read it.  The next moment the great merchant stormed:  “There isn’t a word of truth in it.  It is an infamous lie from start to finish.”

“I told him I didn’t think it was true,” said the young man, “but he talked as if he believed it; remarked that you never advertised with him anyway.”

“Advertise with him!  Why, I didn’t know until this minute that such a paper existed.  How much of an advertisement does he expect?”

“Hold on a moment!” Henry cried.  “Let me kick this fellow into the street.”

“Nothing rash,” said Witherspoon, putting out his hand.  “Sit down, Henry.  It will be all right.  It’s something you don’t understand.”  And speaking to the visitor, he added:  “Send me your rates.”

“I have them here, sir,” he replied, shying out of Henry’s reach.  He handed a card to Witherspoon.

“Let me see, now.  Will half a column for a year be sufficient?”

“Well, that’s rather a small ad, sir.”

Henry got up again.  “I think I’d better kick him into the street.”

“No, no; sit down there.  Let me manage this.  Here.”  The blackmailer had retreated to the door.  “You go back to your editor and tell him that I will put in a column for one year.  Wait.  Has anybody seen this?” he added, holding up the proof-slip.

“Nobody, sir, and I will have the type distributed as soon as I get back.”

“See that you do.  Tell Brooks; he will send you the copy.  Now get out.  Infamous scoundrel!” he said when the fellow was gone.  “But don’t say anything about it at home, for it really amounts to nothing.”

He tore the proof-slip into small fragments and threw them into the spittoon.

“What is it all about?” Henry asked.

“Oh, it’s the foulest of fabrication.  About a year ago there came a widow from Washington with a letter from one of our friends, and asked for a position in the store.  Well, we gave her employment, and—­and it is about her; but it really amounts to nothing.”

“Why, then, didn’t you let me kick the scoundrel into the street?”

“My dear boy, to a man who has the money it is easier to pay than to explain.  The public is greedy for scandal, but looks with suspicion and coldness upon a correction.  One is sweet; the other is tasteless.  The rapid acquisition of wealth is associated with some mysterious crime, and men who have failed in wild speculations are the first to cry out against the millionaire.  The rich man must pay for the privilege of being rich.”

The statement was sent to the city press.  It reminded the public of the abduction of Henry Witherspoon; touched upon the sensation created at the time, and upon the long season of interest that had followed; explained the part which the uncle had played, and delicately gave his cause for playing it.  And the return of the wanderer was set forth with graphic directness.