“Do you really think, Mr. Edmonds, that Judge Enderby’s help to the arrested women is a political move?”

“That’s the way it would be interpreted by all the politicians.  Personally, I don’t believe it.”

“His sympathies, professional and personal, are naturally on the other side,” pointed out Banneker.

“But not yours, surely Ban!” cried Io.  “Yours ought to be with them.  If you could have seen them as I did, helpless and panic-stricken, with the horses pressing in on them—­”

“Of course I’m with them,” warmly retorted Banneker.  “If I controlled the news columns of the paper, I’d make another Sippiac Mills story of this.”  No sooner had he said it than he foresaw to what reply he had inevitably laid himself open.  It came from Io’s lips.

“You control the editorial column, Ban.”

“It’s a subject to be handled in the news, not the editorials,” he said hastily.

The silence that fell was presently relieved by Edmonds.  “It’s also being handled in the advertising columns.  Have you seen the series of announcements by the Garment Manufacturers’ Association?  There are four of ’em now in proof.”

“No.  I haven’t seen them,” answered Banneker.

“They’re able.  But on the whole they aren’t as able as the strikers’ declaration in rebuttal, offered us to-day, one-third of a page at regular advertising rates, same as the manufacturers’.”

“Enderby?” queried Banneker quickly.

“I seem to detect his fine legal hand in it.”

Banneker’s face became moody.  “I suppose Haring refused to publish it.”

“No.  Haring’s for taking it.”

“How is that?” said the editor, astonished.  “I thought Haring—­”

“You think of Haring as if Haring thought as you and I think.  That isn’t fair,” declared Edmonds.  “Haring’s got a business mind, straight within its limitations.  He accepts this strike stuff just as he accepts blue-sky mine fakes and cancer cures in which he has no belief, because he considers that a newspaper is justified in taking any ad. that is offered—­and let the reader beware.  Besides, it goes against his grain to turn down real money.”

“Will it appear in to-morrow’s paper?” questioned Io.

“Probably, if it appears at all.”

“Why the ’if’?” said Banneker.  “Since Haring has passed it—­”

“There is also Marrineal.”

“Haring sent it to him?”

“Not at all.  The useful and ubiquitous Ives, snooping as usual, came upon it.  Hence it is now in Marrineal’s hands.  Likely to remain there, I should think.”

“Mr. Marrineal won’t let it be published?” asked Io.

“That’s my guess,” returned the veteran.

“And mine,” added Banneker.

He felt her eyes of mute appeal fixed on him and read her meaning.

“All right, Io,” he promised quietly.  “If Mr. Marrineal won’t print it in advertising, I’ll print it as editorial.”