At Jeremy’s invitation Mr. Clark disposed his neat and pursy form upon the far edge of a chair impressively, yet with obvious reservations, as one disdaining to concede anything to comfort. Embarrassment might have been conjectured in one less august. His voice was as stiff as his posture as he began: “I had my secretary telephone you, Mr. Robson.” “I got your message.” “And I your reply, which, as transmitted to me, was that I might go to the devil!” “I think I mentioned the place, not the proprietor.” “It does not signify. I am here”--there was no glimmer of light on the round red countenance to suggest an ulterior meaning--“I am here on a matter of business, in my capacity as acting president of the Drovers’ Bank in Mr. Warrington’s absence. As such, I have to inform you that we stand ready to make you a loan on favorable terms upon the security of The Guardian.” “Wh-wh-why?” stammered Jeremy, taken wholly aback. “Do you consider the paper a sound risk now?” “Sufficiently sound.” “Up to what amount?” “Any amount you need.” Jeremy stared at him, unbelieving. “No security I can furnish now is as good as that which you rejected before.” “That may very well be true.” “Yet your offer is still open?” “It is.” “Ah, yes!” said Jeremy, thinking slowly and carefully. “You’re assuming that, with the change in the local political situation, The Guardian is going to shift its principles. Well, Mr. Clark, if you expect that we’re going back one inch from the stand we’ve taken on public utilities, and the P.-U. Corporation in particular, you’re badly fooled. We’re just as much against you as if we were still for Governor Embree. I thought I had made that clear to Judge Dana.” “I have proposed no bargain,” stated the magnate aridly. “I make an offer. No conditions are attached.” “Then I’ve got to tell you frankly that we’re not doing very well.” “So I am informed. What appears to be the trouble? Will the new paper cut into your circulation to an extent--” “Newspapers do not live by circulation alone, Mr. Clark, but chiefly by advertising.” “Certainly; certainly. Local merchants appear to be pretty well represented in your pages.” “At reduced space--or worse. Take the case of Vogt, the florist, who has always been good for a hundred dollars a month with us. Perhaps you can point out Mr. Vogt’s present space in The Guardian.” The visitor ran through the paper handed to him. “I fail to find Mr. Vogt’s advertisement.” “He’s out.” “Why?” “Because The Guardian has been ‘corrupted by British gold.’” “Indeed! Did he express that theory to you personally?” “He did. He also instructed me as to running my paper, and gave me the outlines of an editorial demanding that none of our soldiers be sent abroad to help in the war. When I said that I was n’t interested in pro-German strategy he said something else, in German, which unfortunately I understand a little; and then ‘Police!’”