Then, framed in the doorway, stood the huge bulk of Norton P. Boice, breathless, red, and wet of face, his old straw hat pushed back, his yellowish-white, wavy beard covering his necktie and the upper part of his roundly protruding, slightly spotted vest, against which the heavy watch chain with its dangling fraternal insignia stood out prominently. Boice's eyes, nearly expressionless, finally settled on Humphrey. 'What are you doing here?' he asked, between puffs. Humphrey's only reply was a slight impatient gesture. 'You oughta be at your desk.' Then he came into the room. Of the three men seated there Humphrey was the only one who knew by certain small external signs, that the Caliph of Simpson Street was blazing with wrath. For here was his own hired lieutenant hobnobbing with the boy whose agile, irresponsible pen had made him the laughing stock of the township and with the intemperate rival who had first attacked and then defied him. And then he had just climbed the stairs for the third and what he meant to be the last time. He came straight to business. 'Have you decided to accept my offer?' 'Sit down,' said McGibbon, pushing a chair over with his foot. Boice ignored this final bit of insolence. 'Have you decided to accept my offer?' 'Well'--McGibbon shrugged; spread out his hands--'I've decided nothing, but as it looks now I may find myself forced to accept it.' 'Then I suggest that you accept it now.' 'Well----' the hands went out again. 'Wait a moment,' said Humphrey. 'I think you had better go back to the office,' Boice broke in. 'Shortly. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch, Mr Boice. But first I have business here.' '_You_ have business!' 'Yes.' Humphrey opened the large envelope. 'Here, McGibbon, is your note to Henry for one thousand dollars, due in November.' Before their eyes, deliberately, he tore it up, leaned over McGibbon's legs with an, 'I beg your pardon!' and dropped the pieces in the waste-basket. Next he produced a folded document engraved in green and red ink. 'Here,' he concluded, 'is a four per cent, railway bond that stands to-day at a hundred two and a quarter in the market. That's our price for the _Gleaner_.' McGibbon's nervous eyes followed the movements of Humphrey's hands as if fascinated. During the hush that followed he sat motionless, chin on breast. Then, slowly, he drew in his legs, straightened up, reached for the bond, turned it over, opened it and ran his eye over the coupons, looked up and remarked:-- 'The paper's yours.' 'Then, Mr Boice,' said Humphrey, 'the next issue of the _Gleaner_ will be published by Weaver and Calverly, and the stories you object to will run their course.' But Mr Boice, creaking deliberately over the floor, was just disappearing through the doorway.' 9