“God o’ mercies, Banneker!  Do you ask me to judge other men’s acts, outside the rules of law?  Haven’t I enough problems in reconciling my own conscience to conserving the interests of my clients, as I must, in honor, do?  No; no!  Don’t expect me to judge, in any matter of greater responsibilities.  I’m answerable to a small handful of people.  You—­your Patriot is answerable to a million.  Everything you print, everything you withhold, may have incalculable influence on the minds of men.  You can corrupt or enlighten them with a word.  Think of it!  Under such a weight Atlas would be crushed.  There was a time long ago—­about the time when you were born—­when I thought that I might be a journalist; thought it lightly.  To-day, knowing what I know, I should be terrified to attempt it for a week, a day!  I tell you, Banneker, one who moulds the people’s beliefs ought to have the wisdom of a sage and the inspiration of a prophet and the selflessness of a martyr.”

A somber depression veiled Banneker.  “One must have the sense of authority, too,” he said at length with an effort.  “If that is undermined, you lose everything.  I’ll fight for that.”

With an abrupt motion his host reached up and drew the window shade, as it might be to shut out a darkness too deep for human penetration.

“What does your public care about whether The Patriot loses the city advertising; or even know about it?”

“Not the public.  But the other newspapers.  They’ll know, and they’ll use it against us....  Enderby, we can beat Bob Laird for reelection.”

“If that’s a threat,” returned the lawyer equably, “it is made to the wrong person.  I couldn’t control Laird in this matter if I wanted to.  He’s an obstinate young mule—­for which Heaven be praised!”

“No; it isn’t a threat.  It’s a declaration of war, if you like.”

“You think you can beat us?  With Marrineal?”

“Mr. Marrineal isn’t an avowed candidate, is he?” evaded Banneker.

“I fancy that you’ll see some rapidly evolving activity in that quarter.”

“Is it true that Laird has developed social tendencies, and is using the mayoralty to climb?”

“A silly story of his enemies,” answered Enderby contemptuously.  “Just the sort of thing that Marrineal would naturally get hold of and use.  In so far as Laird has any social relations, they are and always have been with that element which your society reporters call ’the most exclusive circles,’ because that is where he belongs by birth and association.”

“Russell Edmonds says that social ambition is the only road on which one climbs painfully downhill.”

The other paid the tribute of a controlled smile to this.  “Edmonds?  A Socialist.  He has a gnarled mind.  Good, hard-grained wood, though.  I suppose no man more thoroughly hates and despises what I represent—­or what he thinks I represent, the conservative force of moneyed power—­than he does.  Yet in any question of professional principles, I would trust him far; yes, and of professional perceptions, too, I think; which is more difficult.  A crack-brained sage; but wise.  Have you talked over the Laird matter with him?”