“Police?” repeated Mr. Clark, with hopeful interest. “Why did he say that?” “I suppose he thought I was going to throw him downstairs. I was n’t. I left him carefully on the top step.” Signs of perturbation appeared upon the visage of the little magnate. He rose. His projective eyes appeared no longer to feel at home in his face. They roved afar. “Police!” he murmured, and added “Ah!” in a curious, relishing tone. Suddenly he thrust out a pudgy hand, clawed at Jeremy’s unready fingers, murmured “Count on us, Mr. Robson, for anything we can do!”--and stalked out. “Now, how do you account for him?” inquired Jeremy, referring the matter to Galpin, who had come in to announce another withdrawal. “Oh, him!” Galpin turned the public utilitarian over in his mind, considering him on all sides. “Wants to use us to club the Governor, I reckon. Now that we’ve quit ‘Smiling Mart,’ plenty of our old enemies will be willing to play with us on the theory that there’ll be a change in policy.” “They’ll have to make a better guess than that.” “I guess you’re right, Boss,” sighed the other. “Even if we did borrow, it’d only be postponing the finish. Things won’t get any better for us while the war is on. And when the showdown comes where would The Guardian be if we were in for twenty thousand more?” “In the hands of the Drovers’ Bank.” “There or thereabouts. Well, I can’t just see us being editorial copy-boys for President Puff. Can you?” “Not exactly! Yet, you know, Andy, he gave me almost the impression of being really for us.” “Well, it’s possible, Boss; it’s just possible”--the other’s shrewd face was puckered in conjecture--“that he might consider this war thing more important than his own little interests. A man who thinks different from us on every other blooming subject under the sun might be every bit as real an American when it comes to the pinch. Ever think of that, Boss?” “Not just that way.” “Time enough to find out. Where the lion jumps, the jackal follows. See if Old Slippery Dana does n’t come round in the next few days.” Come round Judge Dana did. That candid honesty of expression and demeanor which had aided him in pulling off some of his most dubious tricks was never more markedly in evidence than when he shook hands with Jeremy. “Ever give any thought to the libel suits against you in the office of Dana & Dana?” he began. “Some.” “Bother you any?” “I’m not losing sleep over them.” “Now, I’ll admit candidly,” said the lawyer, “that a couple of ’em are no good. They’re dead. But there’s merit in Madam Taylor’s case. You went too far there. Your own lawyers will tell you that.” “They have,” said Jeremy incautiously, and bit his lip. “Well, in spite of that, I’ve come to tell you that we’ve advised our client to withdraw the action.” “Have you?” said the editor warily. “Why?” “Call it friendship.” “On your part? For The Guardian?”