“That, of course, is what I tried to do. I put the question, point blank. But I couldn’t get anything definite. The fact is I don’t think Mr. Wingrove knew, but a sub-editor is like a policeman, he’ll never own a limit to his knowledge. He hummed and hawed and grew very Planeto-pontifico, the little donkey. However, I clinched the matter finally by making him promise to ring me up as soon as Mr. Gage came in.” “What time is he expected?” “As a rule, he looks in at the Office between ten and eleven.” “When does the paper go to press?” “About midnight--the first edition.” Endor looked at his watch. “Only five minutes to nine at present.” “There’s any amount of time.” The note of reassurance was very stimulating. “And if we can’t get something definite out of them in the course of the next two hours, I’ll go down to the office and see Mr. Gage myself. Now, let me get you some coffee and a little of the Club brandy--if you’ll condescend to it--and then I’ll see what can be done with the U. P.” “Please, please, finish your dinner before you do anything further.” “There’s not a moment to lose with the U. P.,” she said decisively. “I tried to get through five minutes ago, but the line was engaged. The provincial _Mercury_ goes to press at eleven, and they may raise all sorts of difficulties. After Mr. Sub-Editor Wingrove, one foresees big trouble in Universe Lane. However, the _Mercury_ isn’t the _Planet_. All the same, the U. P. is the U. P., and every moment counts.” Again she left the table, in spite of all that Endor could do to detain her, gave orders to a servant, and returned at once to the telephone box. Half stunned as Endor still was by the enemy’s first blow, he had never admired this woman’s virile sense so much. What a prize he had won! As the thought came to him now, it was balm for a deep wound. Quite apart from her attraction and her charm such courage and such competence were beyond price to a public man. Close upon that reflection came one less happy. This rare woman belonged to the enemy’s camp. It was so like the Colossus to have this fine instrument under his hand. Therein lay one of the secrets of his power. And what could be clearer evidence of his Machiavellian quality? How artful the mask he had contrived for his purposes, when even the feminine intuitions of a Helen Sholto were so much at fault that she could bring herself blindly to serve him! To her Saul Hartz was not merely an honest man, he was a hero, a demigod. By the time he had drunk some coffee, and sipped a little brandy, he began to feel more himself. Better able to look the situation in the face, if not to grapple with it, he began mentally to recite his secret formula. _The gods approve the depth, and not the tumult of the soul._ Never had this incantation been known to fail. More than once, even as a boy, it had enabled him to hitch his poor, at times half crazy, wagon to a star.