For the twentieth time, her eyes still tear-filled, Mrs. Watson said: “What can we ever do to thank you, Mr. Lanagan?” “Forgive me certain brutal conduct,” laughed that individual. “As I hope the Lord will forgive me,” he added _sotto voce_, “for misjudging you.” As the automobile sped away to return a very happy couple to their home, Lanagan, hat doffed and in hand, bowed profoundly after the retreating machine, and remarked with veneration to the world at large: “The tenth woman, gentlemen, the tenth woman.” Then to Henley: “Inspector, I believe you said something about buying?” III THE CONSPIRACY OF ONE III THE CONSPIRACY OF ONE “Kind of caught you fellows off base, Norrie.” Bradley, star man for the _Herald_, drawled it at me invidiously as I entered the police reporters’ room at the Hall of Justice. Merriman of the _Times_ and a half-dozen morning paper men, their copy turned in, had drifted down to the room to await any late developments. The Ratto story had been on for three days and the _Herald_ and the _Times_ had “put over” the arrest of Bernardo Tosci, Camorrist, at the expense of Lanagan and myself. “Better shoot a few absinthe drips into Lanagan,” continued Bradley, “and then maybe you’ll land something. He’s been sober so long he’s lost his grip.” Bradley had fared hardly at the expense of Lanagan on more than one occasion. I was about to fling it back at him when Lanagan’s voice interrupted me. He had entered the room unfortunately just in time to hear Bradley’s words. “Possibly,” he said. There was an embarrassed pause. Lanagan had a caustic tip to his tongue and they awaited it now. He studied Bradley without expression, leaning against the door sill. But, curiously enough, there was no outburst. It was always difficult to foresay just what form Lanagan’s humour would take. “Charley,” he said at last to Bradley, and there shaded into his voice a subtle colouring of unconscious pathos, “What have I ever done to you? I have never done you dirt; nor any man in the business dirt. I have played the game square. Why is it that I am always singled out like that? Have I ever betrayed my paper or my friends? Have I ever brought dishonour to the name of the newspaperman? If I have drunk, it has been out of the public sight. “I have fought hard, Charley; fought hard to break the habit. It belongs to a past day in our game. And irrespective of that I may wish to be remembered around here some day as something other than drunken Jack Lanagan. I can’t help it if I have a knack of landing stories. I’ve got to play the game right with my paper, haven’t I? And here in this reporters’ room of all places I thought for a little lift and a hand along and you are trying to shove me down.” His voice hardened in bitterness: “I’ve played a lone hand all my life, though, Charley; it seems to be in the cards that I keep it up.”