“The ‘Clarion’ will print nothing about the accident.”

The editor of the “Clarion” smiled.  At sight of that smile some demon-artist in faces blocked in with lightning swiftness parallel lines of wrath at right angles to the corners of the Pierce mouth.  Through the lips shone a thin glint of white.

“You find me amusing?” Men had found Elias M. Pierce implacable, formidable, inscrutable, even amenable, in some circumstances, with a conscious and godlike condescension; but no opponent had ever smiled at his commands as this stripling of journalism was doing.

Still there was no reply.  In his chair McGuire Ellis leaned back with an expression of beatitude.  The lawyer, shrewd enough to understand that his principal was being baited, now took a hand.

“You may rely on Mr. Pierce to have the woman suitably cared for.”

Now the editorial smile turned upon William Douglas.  It was gentle, but unsatisfying.

“And the reporter will be discharged at once,” continued Elias M. Pierce, exactly as if Douglas had not spoken at all.

“Mr. Ellis,” said Hal, “will you ’phone Mr. Wayne to send up the man who covered the Pierce story?”

The summoned reporter entered the room.  He was a youth named Denton, one year out of college, eager and high-spirited, an enthusiast of his profession, loving it for its adventurousness and its sense of responsibility and power.  These are the qualities that make the real newspaper man.  They die soon, and that is why there are no good, old reporters.  Elias M. Pierce turned upon him like a ponderous machine of vengeance.

“What have you to say for yourself?” he demanded.

Up under Denton’s fair skin ran a flush of pink.  “Who are you?” he blurted.

“You are speaking to Mr. Elias M. Pierce,” said Douglas hastily.

Six weeks before, young Denton would perhaps have moderated his attitude in the interests of his job.  But now through the sensitive organism of the newspaper office had passed the new vigor; the feeling of independence and of the higher responsibility to the facts of the news only.  The men believed that they would be upheld within their own rights and those of the paper.  Harrington Surtaine’s standards had been not only absorbed:  they had been magnified and clarified by minds more expert than his own.  Subconsciously, Denton felt that his employer was back of him, must be back of him in any question of professional honor.

“What I’ve got to say, I’ve said in writing.”

“Show it to me.”  The insolence of the command was quite unconscious.

The reporter turned to Hal.

“Mr. Denton,” said Hal, “did Miss Pierce explain why she didn’t return after running the nurse down?”

“She said she was in a hurry:  that she had a train to catch.”

“Did you ask her if she was exceeding the speed limit?”

“She was not,” interjected Elias M. Pierce.