“What is it?” he cried. “What is it? It's treachery, and the worst I ever knew. Not a word of the accusation I demanded--lying _praises_ instead! Read that editorial--there, _there_!” He struck the page with the back of his hand, and threw the paper to Meredith. “Read that miserable lie! 'One who has won the love and respect of every person in the district!'--'One who has suffered for his championship of righteousness!' _Righteousness!_ Save the mark!” “What does it mean?” “Mean! It means McCune--Rod McCune, 'who has lived under a threat for years'--_my_ threat! I swore I would print him out of Indiana if he ever raised his head again, and he knew I could. 'Almost overborne in the fulfilment of that threat!' _Almost_! It's a black scheme, and I see it now. This man came to Plattville and went on the 'Herald' for nothing in the world but this. It's McCune's hand all along. He daren't name him even now, the coward! The trick lies between McCune and young Fisbee--the old man is innocent. Give me the pad. Not _almost_ overborne. There are three good days to work in, and, by the gods of Perdition, if Rod McCune sees Congress it will be in his next incarnation!” He rapidly scribbled a few lines on the pad, and threw the sheets to Meredith. “Get those telegrams to the Western Union office in a rush, please. Read them first.” With a very red face Tom read them. One was addressed to H. Fisbee: “You are relieved from the cares of editorship. You will turn over the management of the 'Herald' to Warren Smith. You will give him the McCune papers. If you do not, or if you destroy them, you cannot hide where I shall not find you. “JOHN HARKLESS.” The second was to Warren Smith: “Take possession 'Herald.' Dismiss H. Fisbee. This your authority. Publish McCune papers so labelled which H. Fisbee will hand you. Letter follows. Beat McCune. “JOHN HARKLESS.” The author of the curt epistles tossed restlessly on his couch, but the reader of them stared, incredulous and dumfounded, uncertain of his command of gravity. His jaw fell, and his open mouth might have betokened a being smit to imbecility; and, haply, he might be, for Helen had written him from Plattville, pledging his honor to secrecy with the first words, and it was by her command that he had found excuses for not supplying his patient with all the papers which happened to contain references to the change of date for the Plattville convention. And Meredith had known for some time where James Fisbee had found a “young relative” to be the savior of the “Herald” for his benefactor's sake. “You mean--you--intend to--you discharge young Fisbee?” he stammered at last. “Yes! Let me have the answers the instant they come, will you, Tom?” Then Harkless turned his face from the wall and spoke through his teeth: “I mean to see H. Fisbee before many days; I want to talk to him!”