Banneker felt that he, too, could claim a place on those heights.  Yes; he liked his story.  He thought that Mr. Gaines would like it.  Having mailed it, he went to Katie’s to dinner.  There he found Russell Edmonds discussing his absurdly insufficient pipe with his customary air of careworn watchfulness lest it go out and leave him forlorn and unsolaced in a harsh world.  The veteran turned upon the newcomer a grim twinkle.

“Don’t you do it,” he advised positively.

“Do what?”

“Quit.”

“Who told you I was considering it?”

“Nobody.  I knew it was about time for you to reach that point.  We all do—­at certain times.”

“Why?”

“Disenchantment.  Disillusionment.  Besides, I hear the city desk has been horsing you.”

“Then some one has been blabbing.”

“Oh, those things ooze out.  Can’t keep ’em in.  Besides, all city desks do that to cubs who come up too fast.  It’s part of the discipline.  Like hazing.”

“There are some things a man can’t do,” said Banneker with a sort of appeal in his voice.

“Nothing,” returned Edmonds positively.  “Nothing he can’t do to get the news.”

“Did you ever peep through a keyhole?”

“Figuratively speaking?”

“If you like.  Either way.”

“Yes.”

“Would you do it to-day?”

“No.”

“Then it’s a phase a reporter has to go through?”

“Or quit.”

“You haven’t quit?”

“I did.  For a time.  In a way.  I went to jail.”

“Jail?  You?” Banneker had a flash of intuition.  “I’ll bet it was for something you were proud of.”

“I wasn’t ashamed of the jail sentence, at any rate.  Youngster, I’m going to tell you about this.”  Edmonds’s fine eyes seemed to have receded into their hollows as he sat thinking with his pipe neglected on the table.  “D’you know who Marna Corcoran was?”

“An actress, wasn’t she?”

“Leading lady at the old Coliseum Theater.  A good actress and a good woman.  I was a cub then on The Sphere under Red McGraw, the worst gutter-pup that ever sat at a city desk, and a damned good newspaper man.  In those days The Sphere specialized on scandals; the rottener, the better; stuff that it wouldn’t touch to-day.  Well, a hell-cat of a society woman sued her husband for divorce and named Miss Corcoran.  Pure viciousness, it was.  There wasn’t a shadow of proof, or even suspicion.”

“I remember something about that case.  The woman withdrew the charge, didn’t she?”

“When it was too late.  Red McGraw had an early tip and sent me to interview Marna Corcoran.  He let me know pretty plainly that my job depended on my landing the story.  That was his style; a bully.  Well, I got the interview; never mind how.  When I left her home Miss Corcoran was in a nervous collapse.  I reported to McGraw.  ‘Keno!’ says he.  ’Give us a