The incident, small as it was, troubled her. Evan Pell, by his cryptic utterances, set her thinking.... If her imagination had not tricked her wholly there was a reticence about Gibeon; there was something Gibeon hid away from her.... A thing was transpiring which Gibeon did not wish to be known--at least the powerful in Gibeon.... She had encountered whisperings and slynesses.... She laughed at herself. She would be seeing specters presently, she told herself.... But there was the disappearance of Sheriff Churchill. There was the warning note to herself. There were many petty incidents such as the one in Lancelot Bangs’s studio. But why connect them with illicit traffic in intoxicants?... It was absurd to imagine an entire town debauched by the gainfulness of whisky running.... It were a matter best left alone. And so, pursuing her policy of feeling her way, the current issue of the _Free Press_ was quite innocuous--save for what is known technically as a “follow-up” on the subject of Sheriff Churchill, and an editorial in which was pointed out the lethargy of official Gibeon in assailing the mystery. As she was leaving the hotel after luncheon that day, she encountered Abner Fownes making his progress down the street. It was a slow, majestic progress, and quite impressive. Mr. Fownes carried himself with an air. He realized his responsibilities as a personage, and proceeded with the air of a statesman riding in a victoria through a cheering crowd. He spoke affably and ostentatiously to everyone, but when he met Carmel face to face, he paused. “Um!... A hum!... I have read the paper--read it all.” “I hope it pleased you.” “It did not,” said Mr. Fownes. “Indeed! What fault did you find?” “You didn’t consult with me.... Told you to consult with me.... Number of things shouldn’t have been mentioned. Editorial on Churchill--bad business.... Young woman, you can see past the end of your nose.” “I hope so.” “Didn’t I make myself plain?” “You did.” “Um!... Hem!... No time for nonsense. After this--want to see every line goes in that paper.” “Before it is published?” Carmel was stirred to antagonism, but forced herself to speak without heat. “Before it’s published.... I’ll tell you what to print and what not to print.” “Oh,” she said, softly, “you will!” “I own that paper--practically.... I let it live. You’re dependent on me.” Carmel’s eyes snapped now; she was angry. “I fancied _I_ owned the _Free Press_,” she said. “Just so long as I let you--and I’ll let you as long as you--edit it--er--conservatively.” “And _conservatively_ means so long as I print what you want printed, and omit what you wish omitted?” “Exactly,” he said. “You’ve kept that schoolteaching fellow after I told you not to.” She paused a moment, and then she said, very quietly and slowly, “I think, Mr. Fownes, that you and I have got to come to an understanding.” “Exactly what I’m getting at.”