The interview with Enderby had lightened his spirit.  The older man’s candor, his tolerance, his clear charity of judgment, his sympathetic comprehension were soothing and reassuring.  But there was another trouble yet to be faced.  It was three days since the editorial appeared and he had heard no word from Io.  Each noon when he called on the long-distance ’phone, she had been out, an unprecedented change from her eager waiting to hear the daily voice on the wire.  Should he write?  No; it was too difficult and dangerous for that.  He must talk it out with her, face to face, when the time came.

Meantime there was Russell Edmonds.  He found the veteran cleaning out his desk preparatory to departure.

“You can’t know how it hurts to see you go, Pop,” he said sadly.  “What’s your next step?”

“The Sphere.  They want me to do a special series, out around the country.”

“Aren’t they pretty conservative for your ideas?”

Edmonds, ruminating over a pipe even smaller and more fragile than the one sacrificed to his rage and disgust, the day of his resignation, gave utterance to a profound truth: 

“What’s the difference whether a newspaper is radical or conservative, Ban, if it tells the truth?  That’s the whole test and touchstone; to give news honestly.  The rest will take care of itself.  Compared to us The Sphere crowd are conservative.  But they’re honest.  And they’re not afraid.”

“Yes.  They’re honest, and not afraid—­because they don’t have to be,” said Banneker, in a tone so somber that his friend said quickly: 

“I didn’t mean that for you, son.”

“Well, if I’ve gone wrong, I’ve got my punishment before me,” pursued the other with increased gloom.  “Having to work for Marrineal and further his plans, after knowing him as I know him now—­that’s a refined species of retribution, Pop.”

“I know; I know.  You’ve got to stick and wait your chance, and hold your following until you can get your own newspaper.  Then,” said Russell Edmonds with the glory of an inspired vision shining in his weary eyes, “you can tell ’em all to go to hell.  Oh, for a paper of our own kind that’s really independent; that don’t care a hoot for anything except to get the news and get it straight, and interpret it straight; that don’t have to be afraid of anything but not being honest!”

“Pop,” said Banneker, spiritlessly, “what’s the use?  How do we know we aren’t chasing a rainbow?  How do we know people want an honest paper or would know one if they saw it?”

“My God, son!  Don’t talk like that,” implored the veteran.  “That’s the one heresy for which men in our game are eternally damned—­and deserve it.”

“All right.  I know it.  I don’t mean it, Pop.  I’m not adopting Marrineal’s creed.  Not just yet.”

“By the way, Marrineal was asking for you this morning.”

“Was he?  I’ll look him up.  Perhaps he’s going to fire me.  I wish he would.”