“Editor’s Office of The Fenchester Evening Guardian: Undated. My dear Mr. Dorlon:--” “The date is established as of last month by the envelope,” said Senator Embree. Profiting by the interruption, the clerk ran his eye swiftly through the one-page letter; but, instead of resuming his reading, left his place and carried it to the presiding officer. Their heads bent over it close together. A whisper passed between them. Its sibilance, though not its purport, could be heard through the silenced chamber. The clerk of the Senate turned away, not toward his desk, but toward the curtained exit. “Mr. Clerk!” Martin Embree’s voice was not raised by the iota of a tone; yet it stopped the man in his tracks. “Not one step out of my sight with that document.” “The Senator will come to order. The Senator will address himself to the chair,” rebuked the President. Embree’s arm rose, rigid as iron, until his stiffened hand pointed with all the menace of a weapon straight into the face of the discomposed presiding officer. “Mr. President, I hold you responsible for the safety and integrity of that document. I ask you to direct the clerk to read it.” “Read,” said the President after a moment of hesitation. _“‘My dear Mr. Dorlon,’” repeated the clerk: “‘I have yours of the 19th with directions for claiming the last payment from the Trust Co. Glad you approve the paper’s course and are satisfied with what we have done on the Cheese Commission Bill. Locker and Mayne are O.K. I turned over their balance to them. We can whip Smith into line; Cary, Sellers, and Gunderson, too, in time. In the Senate we owe a great deal to’” (the clerk’s voice faltered) “‘Bellows’” (the clerk’s name was Bellows). “‘Better look after him. Let me know when you come to the Capitol. “‘Yours very truly, (Signed) A. M. Wymett.’”_ Dead silence followed, in which the footsteps of the messenger returning the document to Senator Embree, sounded loud and hollow. Then a voice (unidentified) pronounced from the gallery in accents of intensest conviction: “Well, I _am_ damned!” Which inspired another voice (also unidentified) to adjure solemnly, “Burn this letter.” The Senate found relief in nervous, shrill, tittering laughter. “Will the papers print _that?_” shouted somebody, and the presiding officer recovering, hammered vehemently for order. “Gentlemen,” concluded Martin Embree, the damnatory letter raised to the level of his head, “I leave to this honorable body the determination as between the Honorable A. M. Wymett, editor and proprietor of The Fenchester Guardian, and myself.” He sat down. Jeremy turned to his fellow reporter, with questioning eyes. “Knock-out,” said Galpin. “Criminal charge, is n’t it?” “Guess so. Anyhow, it’s good-bye Guardian. So far as Wymett’s concerned, anyway. The crooked hound!” “Did n’t you know he was doing their dirty work?” “I knew he took orders. I didn’t know he took money. We all take orders. You’ll take orders when you suppress this story.”