In token of which he had brought his copy for a full page in that day’s issue. And would Mr. Robson kindly note that he had taken a box for the Loyalty Rally on Saturday, being as good an American as anybody, even if he did bear a German name? And so, exit Mr. Ahrens, stringing out deprecatory statements about a misunderstanding as he went. “For Heaven’s sake, Andy, what does it all mean?” The general manager shook his disheveled head. “Search me!” he said gravely. “Except for this: It means that The Guardian wins.” “Have you reckoned it up?” “Don’t need to. Outside a few of the Old Prussian Guard in the Deutscher Club we’ve got everything back that we lost, and a heap more on top of it.” “But who’s been doing it? And what have they been doing?” cried the bewildered Jeremy. “Not guilty on either count. Somebody’s been impressing our friends, the enemy, that there’s just one way to be saved, and that the only A1, guaranteed salvation is via The Guardian. Watch ’em crowd to the mourners’ seat.” “What’s the paper been doing since I--” “Not a thing. Not a blooming thing, Boss, but just sawing wood. This game was n’t started from inside. I’ll swear to that. Whoever’s been doing the trick--and it looks to me as if there’d been some expert and ree-fined blackmail going on--has been keeping clear of us.” “Judge Dana!” exclaimed Jeremy, struck with a thought. “Well, I’ve been sort of wondering about him myself,” admitted the other. “Met him on the street yesterday and he wanted me to call him up as soon as you got back.” “All right. Here I am.” “Ay-ah? You’ve got to show me. You’re not back till Doc Summerfield says you’re back.” The door opened and the amazed physiognomy of Buddy Higman appeared. “The Boss!” he exclaimed. “Holy Moses! I’m a liar.” “What’s up, Buddy?” “I’ve been stallin’ off Doc Summerfield and a crazy show-foor downstairs. They’re waitin’ now. They said would you come peaceable or be took. I told ’em you’d never been near here.” “Tell ’em I’ll come peaceably, Buddy,” said the editor wearily. He turned to Andrew Galpin. “Andy.” “Ay-ah?” “You’re sure this is straight? You’re sure you’re not the one that’s crazy? Or I?” “Am I sure! Go out the front way, Boss, and see the line waiting. That’ll convince you. I tell you, unless something busts, we’ll win out sure.” Hardly could the editor and owner of The Guardian, led away by Doc Summerfield in deep disgrace, assimilate the hope of ultimate victory for his paper and himself. He dared not let himself believe in it yet, because of the intruding thought of Marcia and of what triumph might mean to him. CHAPTER XX