“No.”

“Then I will.”

Studying her face, as she read, Hal saw it change from gay to grave, saw her quiver and wince with a swiftly indrawn breath, and straightened his spine to what he knew was coming.

“Oh, it’s cruel,” she said in a low tone, letting the paper fall on her knee.

“It’s true,” said Hal.

“Oh, no!  Even if it were, it ought not to be published.”

“Why?”

“Because—­” The girl hesitated.

“Because she’s one of us?”

“No.  Yes.  It has something to do with my feeling, I suppose.  Why, you’ve been a guest at her house.”

“Suppose I have.  The ‘Clarion’ hasn’t.”

“Isn’t that rather a fine distinction?”

“On the contrary.  Personally, I might refrain from saying anything about it.  Journalistically, how can I?  It’s the business of the ‘Clarion’ to give the news.  More than that:  it’s the honor of the ‘Clarion.’”

“But what possible good will it do?”

“If it did no other good, it would warn other reckless drivers.”

“Let the police look to that.  It’s their business.”

“You know that the police dare do nothing to the daughter of Elias M. Pierce.  See here, Partner,”—­Hal’s tone grew gentle,—­“don’t you recall, in that long talk we had about the paper, one afternoon, how you backed me up when I told you what I meant to do in the way of making the ‘Clarion’ honest and clean and strong enough to be straight in its attitude toward the public?  Why, you’ve been the inspiration of all that I’ve been trying to do.  I thought that was the true Esme.  Wasn’t it?  Was I wrong?  You’re not going back on me, now?”

“But she’s so young,” pleaded Esme, shifting her ground before this attack.  “She doesn’t think.  She’s never had to think.  Your article makes her look a—­a murderess.  It isn’t fair.  It isn’t true, really.  If you could have seen her here, so frightened, so broken.  She cried in my arms.  I told her it shouldn’t be printed.  I promised.”

Here was the Great American Pumess at bay, and suddenly splendid in her attitude of protectiveness.  In that moment, she had all but broken Hal’s resolution.  He rose and walked over to the window, to clear his thought of the overpowering appeal of her loveliness.

“How can I—­” he began, coming back:  but paused because she was holding out to him the proof.  Across it, in pencil, was written, “Must not,” and the initials, E.S.M.E.

“Kill it,” she urged softly.

“And my honesty with it.”

“Oh, no.  It can’t be so fatal, to be kind for once.  Let her off, poor child.”

Hal stood irresolute.

“If it were I?” she insisted softly.

“If it were you, would you ask it?”

“I shouldn’t have to.  I’d trust you.”

The sweetness of it shook him.  But he still spoke steadily.

“Others trust me, now.  The men in the office.  Trust me to be honest.”