off it, you can judge how dangerous it was.  Well; I had it pat.  It was really big stuff of its kind.  The woman was brilliant, a daughter of one of the oldest and most noted New York families; and noted in her own right.  She had never married:  preferred to follow her career.  The man was eminent in his line:  not a society figure, except by marriage—­his wife was active in the Four Hundred—­because he had no tastes in that direction.  He was nearly twenty years senior to the girl.  The affair was desperate from the first.  How far it went is doubtful; my informant gave it the worst complexion.  Certainly there must have been compromising circumstances, for the wife left him, holding over him the threat of exposure.  He cared nothing for himself; and the girl would have given up everything for him.  But he was then engaged on a public work of importance; exposure meant the ruin of that.  The wife made conditions; that the man should neither speak to, see, nor communicate with the girl.  He refused.  The girl went into exile and forced him to make the agreement.  My informant had a copy of the letter of agreement; you can see how close she was to the family.  She said that, if we printed it, the man would instantly break barriers, seek out the girl, and they would go away together.  A front-page story, and exclusive.”

“So it was a woman who held the key!” exclaimed Banneker.

Edmonds turned on him.  “What does that mean?  Do you know anything of the story?”

“Not all that you’ve told me.  I know the people.”

“Then why did you let me go on?”

“Because they—­one of them—­is my friend.  There is no harm to her in my knowing.  It might even be helpful.”

“Nevertheless, I think you should have told me at once,” grumbled the veteran.  “Well, I didn’t take the story.  The informer said that she would place it elsewhere.  I told her that if she did I would publish the whole circumstances of her visit and offer, and make New York too hot to hold her.  She retired, bulging with venom like a mad snake.  But she dares not tell.”

“The man’s wife, was it not?”

“Some one representing her, I suspect.  A bad woman, that wife.  But I saved the girl in memory of Marna Corcoran.  Think what the story would be worth, now that the man is coming forward politically!” Edmonds smiled wanly.  “It was worth a lot even then, and I threw my paper down on it.  Of course I resigned from the city desk at once.”

“It’s a fascinating game, being on the inside of the big things,” ruminated Banneker.  “But when it comes to a man’s enslaving himself to his paper, I—­don’t—­know.”

“No:  you won’t quit,” prophesied the other.

“I have.  That is, I’ve resigned.”

“Of course.  They all do, of your type.  It was the peck of dirt, wasn’t it?”

Banneker nodded.

“Gordon won’t let you go.  And you won’t have any more dirt thrown at you—­probably.  If you do, it’ll be time enough then.”