“At Old Central?” asked Robson, using the local name for the State University of Centralia, on the outskirts of Fenchester. “Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “She’s a special. Lives down on Montgomery Street with old Miss Pritchard.” His companion made a mental note of it. “Were n’t you a golf-sharp in Kirk College?” “Captained the team.” “Well, if you really want to write a story about Miss Marcia Ames, watch out for the team trials next month. The Record’ll print that all right. Ay-ah,” he added reflectively. “And there’ll be no spiking of the story by Mart Embree, either.” “Senator Embree?” said Robson, surprised. “Where does he come in?” “Did n’t happen to see him around The Record office before you went to press yesterday, did you?” “Yes, I did.” “Ay-ah. Thought he might ’a’ dropped in. He made a call on The Guardian too.” “What for?” “Dove-o’-peace mission. Wanted to make sure that nothing would get in about the ‘Star-Spangled’ business to stir up ill-feeling.” There rose in Jeremy Robson’s mind the recollection of Farley’s assurance to Embree, “You can rely on us;” which he had not before connected with his slain masterpiece. Now he perceived with indignation that it had been slaughtered to save a German holiday, at the hands of the Honorable Martin Embree. “He’s the one that put a crimp in my story, is he!” “Not necessarily,” qualified The Guardian man. “Probably they would n’t have run it anyway. But he wanted to be sure. That’s Smiling Martin’s way. You don’t catch him missing many tricks.” “What’s his interest?” “Just to smooth things over and keep everything lovely. Rasping up the comfortable Dutchers would n’t do anybody any good, according to his figuring, and would only make things unpleasant.” “A pussyfooter, eh?” “Don’t you believe it,” returned Galpin. “Martin Embree will fight and fight like the devil when he sees good cause for it. How else do you think he could have got where he is?” “I don’t know,” retorted the younger man sullenly. “But I don’t see where he comes in to interfere with me.” “Ask him.” “I will. Where can I find him?” “As quick as all that!” commented The Guardian reporter. He noted a hardening of the small muscles at the corner of Robson’s mouth. “Scrappy little feller, ain’t you!” “Thanks,” said Jeremy Robson, with his sudden, pleasant grin. “I get what you mean. Don’t think I’m going to make a fool of myself. Just the same I _will_ ask him, if you’ll tell me where I can catch him.” “’Round at Trask’s boarding-house, after dinner, most likely. That’s where he lives.”