He had forgotten that he no longer had quarters in town, and must secure a room. He was still carrying his dress-suit case, but he couldn't resist the temptation of first looking in on the old crowd and shaking hands. He hadn't kept in touch with them except that he still read religiously every line of the old sheet, but he had recognized the work of this man and that, and knew from what he had already seen that nothing inside any more than outside could be changed. It was about nine o'clock, so he would find Hartson, the city editor, going over the rival morning papers, his keen eyes alert to discover what the night staff had missed. As he hurried up the narrow stairs his heart was as much in his mouth as it had been the first day he was taken on the staff. Several new office boys eyed him suspiciously, but he walked with such an air of familiarity that they allowed him to pass unquestioned. At the entrance to the sacred precinct of the city editor's room he paused with all his old-time hesitancy. Even after working five years for himself as a managing editor, he found he had lost nothing of his wholesome respect for Hartson. The latter's back was turned when Galbraithe entered, and he waited at the rail until the man looked up. Then with a start Galbraithe saw that this was not Hartson at all. "I--I beg pardon," he stammered. "Well?" demanded the stranger. "I expected to find Mr. Hartson," explained Galbraithe. "Hartson?" "I used to be on the staff and--" "Guess you're in the wrong office," the stranger shut him off abruptly. For a moment Galbraithe believed this was possible, but every scarred bit of furniture was in its place and the dusty clutter of papers in the corner had not been disturbed. The new city editor glanced suspiciously toward Galbraithe's dress suit case and reached forward as though to press a button. With flushed cheeks Galbraithe retreated, and hurried down the corridor toward the reportorial rooms. He must find Billy Bertram and get the latter to square him with the new city editor. He made at once for Billy Bertram's desk, with hand extended. Just beyond was the desk he himself had occupied for so long. Bertram looked up and then Galbraithe saw that it was not Bertram at all. "What can I do for you, old man?" the stranger inquired. He was a fellow of about Bertram's age, and a good deal of Bertram's stamp. "I'm looking for Billy Bertram," stammered Galbraithe. "Guess he must have shifted his desk." He glanced hopefully at the other desks in the room but he did not recognize a face. "Bertram?" inquired the man who occupied Bertram's desk. He turned to the man next to him. "Say, Green, any one here by the name of Bertram?" Green lighted a fresh cigarette, and shook his head. "Never heard of him," he replied indifferently. "He used to sit here," explained Galbraithe. "I've held down this chair fifteen months, and before me a chump by the name of Weston had that honor. Can't go back any further than that."