There were excited murmurs from the group of protestants at this remark. Horace Chadwick, who stood next to Colonel Roundtree decided to go to bat in place of the latter. The colonel was palpably too mad to be articulate. “Dick Chilvers,” said Mr. Chadwick, “do you mean to tell your fellow club members and business associates that you give the slightest credence to this fairy tale?” “I mean to tell you,” replied the publisher evenly, “that I have faith in the men I employ. I didn’t see the story until I read it in the paper this morning. I must confess it sounded incredible. I got my night city editor out of bed and he told me that the story had been thoroughly investigated and verified.” “Verified?” shouted Colonel Roundtree, finding his voice again. “Who in the name of Andrew Jackson verified it?” “A gentleman we all know extremely well,” returned the editor. “I’m going to call him up.” He reached for the telephone book on his desk, looked up a number and gave it to the operator. His visitors gathered around his desk whispering excitedly to each other. There was a moment or two of tense silence and then the bell rang. “Is that 3459 Parkway?” he asked. “Please give me Mr. McDonald.” As he waited the distinguished citizens looked at each other in amazement. They moved closer to the telephone. Presently the publisher was talking again. “Is that you, Mac?” he asked. “This is Dick Chilvers. You know what I want to talk to you about, I guess—yes, that’s it—hell?—I should say so—I’ve got nearly an even dozen irate citizens here now and I’m dead certain there are more on the way—Roundtree?—yes, he’s here—yes, he’s a little excited about it——” An indignant snort from the colonel interrupted the conversation. His associates nudged him into silence. “Jennings said you gave Crandall the story,” Chilvers was saying. “You did, eh?—what’s the idea? Come now, Mac, this is serious—don’t laugh like that—why if Roundtree ever heard that laugh he’d commit aggravated assault and battery on the spot—y-e-s—y-e-s—well, of course——” The little group bent forward eagerly to catch every word. The one-sided conversation began to get more and more cryptic to them. “You will, eh,” the publisher continued. “No—not this time. I’ll get this particular story myself—noon, eh?—all right, Mac.” Chilvers hung up the phone and turned to his friends. “Gentlemen,” he remarked easily. “I’m going out on a little assignment myself. I’m going to interview Mr. Donald McDonald of the Merchants Trust Company. He says he’s got another story that’s better than this one. I’ll have to ask you to excuse me until I see him.” “We’ll meet you at his office,” blurted Colonel Roundtree. “There’s something powerful queer about this thing and we’re going to see it through.” “Mac won’t be at his office,” responded the publisher. “He said he’d prefer not to meet any of you until tomorrow. We’ve arranged a—well, a sort of a secret rendezvous.”