“It’s a pretty dirty business, Honey.  And, I’m afraid, he’s a pretty bad breed.”

“The father is rather impossible, isn’t he?” she said, laughing.  “But they say he’s very kindly, and well-meaning, and public-spirited, and that kind of thing.”

“He’s a scoundrelly old quack.  It’s a bad inheritance for the boy.  Where are you off to this morning?”

“To the ‘Clarion’ office.”

“What!  Well, but, see here, dear, does Cousin Clarice approve of that sort of thing?”

“Wholly,” Esme assured him, dimpling.  “It’s on behalf of the Recreation Club.  That’s the Reverend Norman Hale’s club for working-girls, you know.  We’re going to give a play.  And, as I’m on the Press Committee, it’s quite proper for me to go to the newspapers and get things printed.”

“Humph!” grunted Dr. Elliot.  “Well:  good hunting—­Pumess.”

After the girl had gone, he sat thinking.  He knew well the swift intimacies, frank and clean and fine, which spring up in the small, close-knit social circles of a city like Worthington.  And he knew, too, and trusted and respected the judgment of Mrs. Festus Willard, whose friendship was tantamount to a certificate of character and eligibility.  As against that, he set the unforgotten picture of the itinerant quack, vending his poison across the countryside, playing on desperate fears and tragic hopes, coining his dollars from the grimmest of false dies; and now that same quack,—­powerful, rich, generous, popular, master of the good things of life,—­still draining out his millions from the populace, through just such deadly swindling as that which had been lighted up by the flaring exploitation of the oil torches fifteen years before.  Could any good come from such a stock?  He decided to talk it out with Esme, sure that her fastidiousness would turn away from the ugly truth.

Meantime, the girl was making a toilet of vast and artful simplicity wherewith to enrapture the eye of the beholder.  The first profound effect thereof was wrought upon Reginald Currier, alias “Bim,” some fifteen minutes later, at the outer portals of the “Clarion” office.

“Hoojer wanter—­” he began, and then glanced up.  Almost as swiftly as he had aforetime risen under Hal’s irate and athletic impulsion, the redoubtable Bim was lifted from his seat by the power of Miss Elliot’s glance.  “Gee!” he murmured.

The Great American Pumess, looking much more like a very innocent, soft, and demurely playful kitten, accepted this ingenuous tribute to her charms with a smile.  “Good-morning,” she said.  “Is Mr. Surtaine in?”

“Same t’you,” responded the courteous Mr. Currier.  “Sure he is.  Walk this way, maddim!”

They found the editor at his desk.  His absorbed expression brightened as he jumped up to greet his visitor.

“You!” he cried.

Esme let her hand rest in his and her glance linger in his eyes, perhaps just a little longer than might have comported with safety in one less adept.