And then, too quickly, the moment of clearness passed; and he was troubled about the “Herald,” beseeching those near him to put copies of the paper in his hands, threatening angrily to believe they were deceiving him, that his paper had suspended, if the three issues of the week were not instantly produced. What did they mean by keeping the truth from him? He knew the “Herald” had not come out. Who was there to get it out in his absence? He raised himself on his elbow and struggled to be up; and they had hard work to quiet him. But the next night Meredith waited near his bedside, haggard and dishevelled. Harkless had been lying in a long stupor; suddenly he spoke, quite loudly, and the young surgeon, Gay, who leaned over him, remembered the words and the tone all his life. “Away and away--across the waters,” said John Harkless. “She was here--once--in June.” “What is it, John?” whispered Meredith, huskily. “You're easier, aren't you?” And John smiled a little, as if, for an instant, his swathed eyes penetrated the bandages, and saw and knew his old friend again. That same night a friend of Rodney McCune's sent a telegram from Rouen: “He is dying. His paper is dead. Your name goes before convention in September.” CHAPTER XIII. JAMES FISBEE On Monday morning three men sat in council in the “Herald” office; that is, if staring out of dingy windows in a demented silence may be called sitting in council; that was what Mr. Fisbee and Parker and Ross Schofield were doing. By almost desperate exertions, these three and Bud Tipworthy had managed to place before the public the issues of the paper for the previous week, unaided by their chief, or, rather, aided by long accounts of his condition and the manner of his mishap; and, in truth, three copies were at that moment in the possession of Dr. Gay, accompanied by a note from Parker warning the surgeon to exhibit them to his patient only as a last resort, as the foreman feared the perusal of them might cause a relapse.