"_Miss Esme Elliot, Society Belle and Owner of No. 9 Sadler's Shacks, Known as the Pest-Egg."_ "You've seen it," said Wayne's voice at his elbow. "Yes." "Well; it was that I wanted to ask you about." "Ask it," said Hal, dry-lipped. "I knew you were a--a friend of Miss Elliot's. We can kill it out yet. It--it isn't absolutely necessary to the story," he added, pityingly. He turned and looked away from a face that had grown swiftly old under his eyes. In Hal's heart there was a choking rush of memories: the conquering loveliness of Esme; her sweet and loyal womanliness and comradeship of the night before; the half-promise in her tones as she had bid him come to her; the warm pressure of her arms fending him from the sight of his friend's blood; and, far back, her voice saying so confidently, "I'd trust you," in answer to her own supposititious test as to what he would do if a news issue came up, involving her happiness. Blotting these out came another picture, a swathed head, quiet upon a pillow. In that moment Hal knew that he was forever done with suppressions and evasions. Nevertheless, he intended to be as fair to Esme as he would have been to any other person under attack. "You're sure of the facts?" he asked Wayne. "Certain." "How long has she owned it?" "Oh, years. It's one of those complicated trusteeships." Hope sprang up in Hal's soul. "Perhaps she doesn't know about it." "Isn't she morally bound to know? We've assumed moral responsibility in the other trusteeships. Of course, if you want to make a difference--" Wayne, again wholly the journalist, jealous for the standards of his craft, awaited his chief's decision. "No. Have you sent a man to see her?" "Yes. She's away." "Away? Impossible!" "That's what they said at the house. The reporter got the notion that there was something queer about her going. Scared out, perhaps." Hal thought of the proud, frank eyes, and dismissed that hypothesis. Whatever Esme's responsibility, he did not believe that she would shirk the onus of it. "Dr. Elliot?" he enquired. "Refused all information and told the reporter to go to the devil." Hal sighed. "Run the story," he said. "And the picture?" "And the picture." Going out he left directions with the telephone girl to try to get Miss Elliot and tell her that it would be impossible for him to call that day. "She will understand when she sees the paper in the morning," he thought. "Or think she understands," he amended ruefully. The telephone girl did not get Miss Elliot, for good and sufficient reasons, but succeeded in extracting a promise from the maiden cousin at Greenvale that the message would be transmitted.