The _Evening Press_ arrived. Folding back the sheet, the rather unpretty sheet with its crude headlines and blurred ink, she placed a finger on the fatal paragraph. While he read she watched him. But his face was hidden by the paper and it was not until a slow perusal was at an end that it came again into view. So great was the change that it struck her almost with fear. The allure was gone; such a depth of pallor had the look of death itself. But the eyes were blazing and the large, mobile orator’s mouth was clenched in a vain effort to control its emotion. “Blackguards!” he gasped. She saw that in his eyes were tears. Her brain was numb, yet the glow racing through her veins was sheer joy. The question was answered; every doubt was laid. So much for the woman. And in that moment the woman was paramount. But in the balanced mind, delicately poised, acutely commonsensible, was now a concern beyond the personal. What was the meaning of it all? “I knew of course ... I felt ... that you had been ... misreported.”... Her words were tentative, inadequate. Painfully watching the man opposite she knew only too well that the John Endor of three minutes back might never have been. The play, the interplay, of changing lights upon his face and in his eyes were beyond her ken. Almost for the first time she began to have a real perception of the infinities within him, of that central power which could sweep a great audience off its feet. Of a sudden he sprang fiercely from his chair. “It’s devilish!” His voice was hoarse. “Absolutely devilish!” Hardly had he used the words when the pain in her eyes reined him back. Abruptly as he had risen, he sat down again at the table. “I beg your pardon!” he said. “But, you see, it’s a stab in the back--from the world’s most accomplished assassin.” She saw that his lips were white and that his face was drawn. “Mayn’t it be just a mere accident?” Courage was needed to say anything. To say that called for much. He laughed harshly. The gay irresponsible boy might never have been. “Accidents don’t happen to the Universal Press.” “But why shouldn’t they--once in a while?” Her voice had a maternal caress in it. “The U. P. is the most efficient machine ever invented. It lives for and by efficiency--damnable word! That’s the talisman with which it sways five continents. God help us all! No accident here.” “Can you really be sure?” “Internal evidence. The few casual, cut-and-dried phrases I used, hardly more than a formal returning of thanks, have been so twisted round that they are the exact opposite of what was meant.” “Perhaps there’s been a confusion of names.” “No! no! Much too circumstantial--John Endor--luncheon--this afternoon--Blackhampton Town Hall. There’s no excuse. And the trick is so simple, so easy, once you condescend to its use. Take that final phrase, ‘I believe in the Sword.’” Helen waited eagerly. “Knock out the first letter of the last word and you have the phrase I used.”