For some little time past, Endor had suspected that he was on the “Index.” More than once had he challenged the _bona fides_ of the U. P.; more than once had he thrown down the gage to the all-powerful newspaper ring which was now proposing to link up every continent. Moreover, in the phrase of a recent speech, he had bitterly attacked “its _Vehmgericht_ of assassins.” That speech, made to Helen’s dismay, and of which she was far from realizing the true significance, would not, he knew, be forgiven. Nothing wounds like the truth. To Helen, however, it was part of his “platform,” an amusingly, over-emphasized article of political faith. She did not know, she could not be expected to know, that it was a deliberate offering of battle to the most potent evil in the life of the time. It was David _vs._ Goliath. The primitive sling and pebbles had hardly a chance, but David was upheld by the divine courage of youth and by a pure cause. Already he was in the arena. He could feel the horrid breath of the monster on his face. One flick he had had of a grisly paw, just one little flick below the belt--there were no Queensberry rules for the U. P.--and he was nearly out. He was nearly out even before the game had really started. Gasping in an agony that seemed hardly less than mortal, he realized now the nature of the odds. The force of that first playful little tap had almost killed him. However, he must rise from the tan. If he didn’t look out, those cloven hoofs would be pressing out his life. There was no time to rest, even for a little while. Let him get up, keep going somehow. He must fight on. V Helen was at the telephone a long ten minutes. She returned to find her guest in a kind of stupor. His legs were stretched out; his eyes shut. “Such a tiring day he must have had, poor darling!” was her thought, as her strong, cheerful, assured voice brought him back with a start to the moment’s pressure. “I managed to get through to the Office,” she said, sitting down again to the table. “Mr. Gage, unfortunately, was not there. And, really”--a clear note of vexation began to strike through the optimism this woman of the world imposed habitually upon herself--“sometimes they can be very trying, even in Cosmos Alley. I explained what the situation was--told them just what had happened--gave them your word that the U. P. version was hopelessly inaccurate, and that on no account must it appear in to-morrow’s _Planet_.” “Yes, yes,” he said, faintly. “Well, Mr. Sub-Editor Wingrove, hidebound little pedant”--the note of vexation was growing more dominant--“said he could not take any responsibility in the matter, but as soon as Mr. Gage arrived he would lay the facts before him.” “Were you able to find out whether it is their intention to reprint the speech as given in the _Evening Press_?”