“I have heard,” proceeded Witherby, a little dashed by Bartley's coolness, “that Mr. Ricker accuses you of having used material in that article you sold him which had been intrusted to you under the seal of confidence, and that you had left it to be inferred by the party concerned--that Mr. Ricker had written the article himself.” “All right,” said Bartley. “But, Mr. Hubbard,” said Witherby, struggling to rise into virtuous supremacy, “what am I to think of such a report?” “I can't say; unless you should think that it wasn't your affair. That would be the easiest thing.” “But I _can't_ think that, Mr. Hubbard! Such a report reflects through you upon the Events; it reflects upon _me_!” Bartley laughed. “I can't approve of such a thing. If you admit the report, it appears to me that you have--a--done a--a--wrong action, Mr. Hubbard.” Bartley turned upon him with a curious look; at the same time he felt a pang, and there was a touch of real anguish in the sarcasm of his demand, “Have I fallen so low as to be rebuked by _you_?” “I--I don't know what you mean by such an expression as that, Mr. Hubbard,” said Witherby. “I don't know what I've done to forfeit your esteem,--to justify you in using such language to me.” “I don't suppose you really do,” said Bartley. “Go on.” “I have nothing more to say, Mr. Hubbard, except--except to add that this has given me a great blow,--a _great_ blow. I had begun to have my doubts before as to whether we were quite adapted to each other, and this has--increased them. I pass no judgment upon what you have done, but I will say that it has made me anxious and--a--unrestful. It has made me ask myself whether upon the whole we should not be happier apart. I don't say that we should; but I only feel that nine out of ten business men would consider you, in the position you occupy on the Events,--a--a--dangerous person.” Bartley got up from his desk, and walked toward Witherby, with his hands in his pockets; he halted a few paces from him, and looked down on him with a sinister smile. “I don't think they'd consider you a dangerous person in any position.” “May be not, may be not,” said Witherby, striving to be easy and dignified. In the effort he took up an open paper from the desk before him, and, lifting it between Bartley and himself, feigned to be reading it. Bartley struck it out of his trembling hands. “You impudent old scoundrel! Do you pretend to be reading when I speak to you? For half a cent--” Witherby, slipping and sliding in his swivel chair, contrived to get to his feet “No violence, Mr. Hubbard, no violence _here_!”