There were murmurs of approval of these belligerent sentiments from the little group of protestants which had just been increased by the arrival of Jonathan Wilde, a thin dyspeptic looking man with a disappearing Adam’s apple and of Henry Quinby Blugsden, a former United States senator who carried the dignity of America’s foremost debating society about with him on all occasions. “Legal measures, my dear colonel,” said the former senator, “are, I think, the soundest in such an emergency. So far as I am concerned my suit will be filed this afternoon. I shall name the sum of $250,000 as insufficient damages for the mental pain I have already undergone. Mrs. Blugsden, as many of you know, is a woman of decided prejudices and a strong mind.” “She hasn’t a shade on my wife,” remarked Mr. Wilde. “She’s got two doctors working on her this minute. Went right off into hysterics at the breakfast table and began smashing china.” “My own deah Julia,” remarked the colonel, “professed not to believe the damned nonsense, but there was a look in her off eye as I was passin’ out the door that made me feel more uncomfortable than I have since the day Yellow Boy lost the Eastern Shore Handicap.” The elevator door out in the corridor clanged just then and the brisk step of Richard Chilvers was heard approaching the little delegation of prominent citizens. Colonel Roundtree moved to a strategic position at the head of the group. The publisher—a tall, forthright, hearty looking man—stopped at the doorway and affected great surprise at the combination of wealth, social position and business power he found confronting him. “Well, well,” he remarked buoyantly, “the Bulletin seems to be honored this morning. It can’t be possible that you’re all waiting to see me, is it?” Colonel Roundtree lost his voice for a moment at the breezy assurance of this greeting. He coughed violently and then composed himself with a mighty effort. “You know perfectly well why we’re here, Dick Chilvers,” he said majestically. “We’re here because the honor and the sacred dignity of our homes and hearths have been ruthlessly assailed in the public prints.” The publisher walked toward the door leading to his office. He held it open. “Just step inside, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “I never discuss business out here.” The prominent citizens moved inside and disposed themselves about the desk in the centre of the room. Mr. Chilvers, who was irritatingly calm, laid his hat and gloves on the desk and faced them. “Won’t you be seated, gentlemen?” he asked suavely. “Seated! Hell!” retorted Colonel Roundtree. “We want to talk to you standin’ up. Why did you print that lyin’ yarn this mornin’?” “I presume you refer to the story about the Automobile Club,” returned the publisher. “I’m not aware that it is a lying yarn, as you call it. I’ve been up several hours, colonel, and I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own.”