At Trask’s that evening Jeremy Robson ascended through a clinging aroma of cookery, to a third-floor room, very tiny, very tidy, very much overcrowded with books, pamphlets, a cot, and the spare squareness of the Honorable Martin Embree. The visitor was somewhat surprised at finding a political leader of such prominence so frugally housed. Embree sat at a small table, making notes from a federal report on railroad earnings. He lifted his head and Robson noted a single splash of gray in the brown hair that waved luxuriantly up from the broad forehead. His meetings with the Northern Tier leader had been casual: so he had been the more flattered at Embree’s ready recognition on the previous evening. Now he was struck anew with the soft, almost womanish brilliance of the prominent eyes, and the sense of power in the upper part of the face, sharpening down into shrewdness, in the mouth and chin. A thoroughly attractive face, and more than that, a winning as well as an impressive personality. Embree smiled as he greeted his caller by name, and the reporter suddenly felt all the animus ooze from his purpose. He still wanted to know the why and wherefore of Embree’s action. But his interest in knowing was equally apportioned between himself and his adversary. Characteristically, Jeremy went straight to the point. “I came to find out why you got The Record to kill my story.” “Sit down.” The Senator relinquished his chair, motioned his visitor to it, and seated himself on the edge of the cot. “Your story? What story was that?” “Why, about the band playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and Miss -------- and just two people standing up for it.” “Was it your story? I’m sorry if it was killed.” Embree’s tone was of the simplest sincerity. “But it really was n’t my doing. I only suggested to Mr. Farley that a mishandling of the episode might create an unfortunate impression and incidentally reflect upon The Record. You know how sensitive our German-Americans are.” “It’d be better for us if we American-Americans were a little more sensitive,” blurted Robson. “You’re wholly right, Mr. Robson. I wish more of us had the spirit of that young lady in the gallery. What a gallant little figure she was; something knightly and valorous about her! And she, all alone.” “There was Mr. Laurens,” suggested Robson. “Quite another matter. For political effect only, and not in the best of taste, I thought. If the chairman had n’t been a numskull he would have called the whole audience to its feet, and the matter would have been a graceful and pleasant and patriotic incident. But Felder is a blunderhead. He stopped the music. I would have got the people up, myself, in another two seconds.” “Senator, you understand the Germans,” said the reporter, reverting to his central interest. “I’d like you to read this and tell me if it would have given offense to any decently loyal German-American.”