His speech had caused him remorse, for he was no longer cold and phlegmatic. His attitude of aloofness changed suddenly and completely to fatherly kindness, which made itself felt as he tendered his apologies and again offered me a chair. It was my turn to assume indifference, for I saw now that I was mistress of the situation. I drew myself in, so to speak, smiled a hurt smile and seated myself. “I thought you might throw a bit of light on Mr. Milton’s death,” I ventured again. “The man is dead, why not let it go at that,” he suggested, for by this time he had become docile and his attitude suggested capitulation. “But don’t you see,” I explained, “it’s my assignment, and I must take back something. If it doesn’t go with me you’ll only be harassed by others. Why not say just what you know?” “Do you expect newspaper work to get you anywhere?” This was partly to change the subject, and partly to manifest some interest in me. “Indeed, yes,” I replied, “the practice lays a foundation for better writing. Of course, there are things about it that I hate, such as this, but on the whole it is good for one. You see there is no waiting for an impulse to write, which seldom comes naturally to one. The work is there and it must be done. This forced writing teaches concentration and rapidity, while at the same time it keeps one awake to the movements of the day, nationally and internationally.” This was from my heart, for it was for this reason alone that I had associated myself with the press. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps, but it robs girls of their modesty, and it teaches them to exaggerate events.” This brutally frank statement brought me perilously to the verge of tears. At the same time it brought the realization that this particular piece of news--if I succeeded in my purpose--must be reported correctly in every detail--there could be no exaggeration. And I wondered why I cared. These thoughts must have shown in my eyes. There must have been something about my expression that made my friend sorry for me. I say friend, because I felt from this moment that he was my friend. “But, of course,” he went on, “there are always exceptions. I know you are one and I hope you will remain one.” I thanked him and renewed my efforts to worm the desired information out of him. He explained that his aversion to newspapers was due to the pain he had but recently suffered from a great sorrow. “Had I been a rich man instead of a poor professor there would have been no scandal published about my wife.” “How could you have prevented it?” I asked innocently. I was not innocent, for I had heard much of papers being bought off by advertisers. “By buying them off.” “Then the story was true, was it not?” His face reddened, he realized his admission.