Before breakfast the next morning Brooks was at Witherspoon’s house.  A “friend” had called his attention to the article.  Had it appeared in one of the reputable journals instead of in this fly-by-night smircher of the characters of men, a suit for criminal libel would have been brought, but to give countenance to this slander was to circulate it; and therefore the two men were resolved not to permit the infamy to place them under the contribution of a moment’s worry.

“The character of a successful man is a target to be shot at by the envious,” said Witherspoon.  He was pacing the room, and anger had hardened his step.  “A target to be shot at,” he repeated, “and the shots are free.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” Brooks replied.  He stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him.  “I was so worried that I couldn’t sleep after I saw the thing late last night; and my wife was crying when I left home.”

“Infamous scoundrels!” Witherspoon muttered.

“I didn’t think anything could be done,” Brooke continued, “but I thought it best to see you at once.”

“Of course,” said Witherspoon.

“But, after all, don’t you think we ought to have those wretches locked up?” Brooke asked.

“Yes,” Witherspoon answered, “and we ought to have them hanged, but we might as well set out to look for Kittymunks.  Ten chances to one they are not here at all; the thing might have been printed in a town three hundred miles from here.”

“Yes, that’s so,” Brooks admitted; and addressing Henry, who stood at a window, gazing out, he added:  “What do you think about it?”

Henry did not heed the question, so forgetfully was he gazing, and Brooks repeated it.

“If you have decided not to worry,” Henry answered, “it is better not to trouble yourselves at all.  I doubt whether you could ever find the publishers of the paper.”

“You are right,” Brooks agreed.

“Character used to be regarded as something at least half way sacred,” said Witherspoon, “but now, like an old plug hat, it is kicked about the streets.  And yet we boast of our freedom.  Freedom, indeed!  So would it be freedom to sit at a window and shoot men as they pass.  I swear to God that I never had as much trouble and worry as I’ve had lately. Everything goes wrong.  What about Jordway & Co., of Aurora?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Brooks answered.  “Jordway has killed himself, and the affairs of the firm are in a hopeless tangle.”

“Of coarse,” Witherspoon replied, “and we’ll never get a cent.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.  I cautioned you against them, you remember.”

“Never saw anything like it,” Witherspoon declared, not recalling the caution that Brooks had advised, or not caring to acknowledge it.

“Oh, everything may come out all right.  Pardon me, Mr. Witherspoon, but I think you need rest”

“There is no rest,” Witherspoon replied.