Working on an empty heart is almost as severe a strain as the less poetic process of working on an empty stomach.  On the morning after the failure of Esme’s strategy and the wrecking of Hal’s hopes, the young editor went to his office with a languid but bitter distaste for its demands.  The first item in the late afternoon mail stung him to a fitter spirit, as a sharp blow will spur to his best efforts a courageous boxer.  This was a packet, containing the crumbled fragments of a spray of arbutus, and a note in handwriting now stirringly familiar.

    I have read your editorial.  From a man dishonest enough to print
    deliberate lies and cowardly enough to attack a woman, it is just
    such an answer as I might have expected.

    ELEANOR S.M.  ELLIOT.

At first the reference to the editorial bewildered Hal.  Then he remembered.  Esme had known nothing of the editorial until she read it in the paper.  She had inferred that he wrote it after leaving her, thus revenging himself upon her by further scarification of the friend for whom she had pleaded.  To the charge of deliberate mendacity he had no specific clue, not knowing that Kathleen Pierce had denied the authenticity of the interview.  He mused somberly upon the venomed injustice of womankind.  The note and its symbol of withered sweetness he buried in his waste-basket.  If he could but discard as readily the vision of a face, strangely lovely in its anger and chagrin, and wearing that set and desperate smile!  Well, there was but one answer to her note.  That was to make the “Clarion” all that she would have it not be!

No phantoms of lost loveliness came between McGuire Ellis and his satisfaction over the Pierce coup.  Characteristically, however, he presented the disadvantageous as well as the favorable aspects of the matter to his employer.

“Some paper this morning!” he began.  “The town is humming like a hive.”

“Over the Pierce story?” asked Hal.

“Nothing else talked of.  We were sold out before nine this morning.”

“Selling papers is our line of business,” observed the owner-editor.

“You won’t think so when you hear Shad Shearson.  He’s an avalanche of woe, waiting to sweep down upon you.”

“What’s his trouble?  The department store advertising?”

“The Boston Store advertising is gone.  Others are threatening to follow.  Pierce has called a meeting of the Publications Committee of the Dry Goods Union.  Discipline is in the air, Boss.  Have you seen the evening papers?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think of their stories of the accident?”

“I seemed to notice a suspicious similarity.”

“You can bet every one of those stories came straight from E.M.  Pierce’s own office.  You’ll see, they’ll be the same in to-morrow morning’s papers.  Now that we’ve opened up, they all have to cover the news, so they’ve thoughtfully sent around to inquire what Elias M. would like to have printed.”