“Denton’s there.  Well, as there’s nothing doing, I’ll tackle a little work.”  And seating himself at his desk beside the broad window Ellis proceeded to annihilate some telegraph copy, fresh off the wire.  With the big tenement story spread, the morrow’s paper would be straitened for space.  Excusing himself to his father, Hal stepped into his private office—­and recoiled in uttermost amazement.  There, standing in the further doorway, lovely, palpitant, with the color flushing in her cheeks and the breath fluttering in her throat, stood Esme Elliot.

“Oh!” she gasped, stretching out her hands to him.  “I’ve tried so to get you by ’phone.  There’s a mob coming—­”

“Yes, I know,” said Hal gently.  He led her to a chair.  “We’re ready for them.”

“Are you?  I’m so glad.  I was afraid you wouldn’t know in time.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’ve been working with Mr. Hale down in the district.  I heard rumors of it.  Then I listened to what the people said, and I hurried here in my car to warn you.  They’re drunk, and mean trouble.”

“That was good of you!  I appreciate it.”

“No.  It was a debt.  I owed it to the ‘Clarion.’  You’ve been—­splendid about the typhus.”

“Worthington doesn’t look at it that way,” returned Hal, with a rather grim smile.

“When they understand, they will.”

“Perhaps.  But, see here, you can’t stay.  There may be danger.  It’s awfully good of you to come.  But you must get away.”

She looked at him sidelong.  In her coming she had been the new Esme, the Esme who was Norman Hale’s most unselfish and unsparing worker, the Esme who thought for others, all womanly.  But, now that the strain had relaxed, she reverted, just a little, to her other self.  It was, for the moment, the Great American Pumess who spoke:—­

“Won’t you even say you’re glad to see me?”

“Glad!” The echo leaped to his lips and the fire to his eyes as the old unconquered longing and passion surged over him.  “I don’t think I’ve known what gladness is since that night at your house.”

Her eyes faltered away from his.  “I don’t think I quite understand,” she said weakly; then, with a change to quick resolution:—­

“There is something I must tell you.  You have a right to know it.  It’s about the paper.  Will you come to see me to-morrow?”

“Yes.  But go now.  No!  Wait!”

From without sounded a dull murmur pierced through with an occasional whoop, jubilant rather than threatening.

“Too late,” said Hal quietly.  “They’re coming.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“But I am—­for you.  Stay in this room.  If they should break into the building, go up those stairs and get to the roof.  They won’t come there.”

He went into the outer room, closing the door behind him.

From both directions and down a side street as well the dwellers in the slums straggled into the open space in front of the “Clarion” office.  To Hal they seemed casual, purposeless; rather prankish, too, like a lot of urchins out on a lark.  Several bore improvised signs, uncomplimentary to the “Clarion.”  They seemed surprised when they encountered the rope barrier with its warning placards.  There were mutterings and queries.