“I never take an afternoon off,” sighed the lawyer, “but some obtrusive business crops up and ruins the day’s sport. Let’s go down to the office, Mr. Clark, and talk this over.” One more bit of meddling with the irresponsible fates which rule men and newspapers was committed by Miss Ames that afternoon. Magnus Laurens, just off a train, came in late to the tea, and was straightway seized upon. “Uncle Magnus! Where have you been, all these weeks and months?” “Well, Marcia!” He took both her hands and looked down into her face. “What a sight you are! If you’re ever allowed to get away from America again, I’ll lose all faith in our young manhood....Where have I been? Here and there and everywhere. Organizing the State Council of Defense. Raising money. Trips to Washington. Letting family and business go to the bow-wows.” “Are you in touch with Fenchester matters?” “Hello! What’s this? You’re talking like a politician. After my vote?” “Do you know that The Guardian has been making the fight almost alone here against the anti-war crowd?” Magnus Laurens rubbed his big, gray head perplexedly. “I’ve got to look into that situation. When Jeremy Robson went back on us--” “Jeremy Robson never went back on you! At least, not since war was probable. And--and your company is choking The Guardian to death with a contract dishonestly made by Senator Embree’s man, Verrall.” “The devil! I beg your pardon, Marcia. Where did you learn these interesting facts--if they are facts?” “From Mr. Galpin.” “Oh! Hardly a disinterested witness.” “Uncle Magnus, I wish you to promise me just one thing.” “Not so foolish! What is it?” “I wish you to go to the Library this evening--no matter how busy you are--and go over the files of The Guardian since last March.” “I’ll do that much,” he agreed. “Then you will do more,” said Marcia contentedly. That first day’s confabulation between Marcia and Galpin, the scope of which its object, Jeremy Robson, little suspected, was bearing fruit. CHAPTER XVI LONG years unheard yet unforgotten, the voice of Edwin Garson, President Montrose Clark’s hand-perfected private secretary, warbled with a mellifluous intonation over the telephone wire into the surprised ear of The Guardian’s editor and owner. “Hello! Hello? _Hel_-lo!... This Mr. Robson?... Office of the Fenchester Public Utilities. Mr. Montrose Clark wishes to see you.” An unfortunate formula. It recalled the vivid past. One sweetly solemn thought in Jeremy’s mind was forthwith transmuted into one briefly pregnant speech which shocked the private secretary clean off the wire. Jeremy resumed his editorializing. His next interruption, to his incredulous astonishment, took the important form and presence of Mr. Montrose Clark himself. Mahomet had come to the mountain.