Mr. Cornelius was the owner of the _Gazette_, having become so, not from any personal merit, but because his father left him some millions, part of which he expended upon this purchase. He seldom was seen in the office himself, but occasionally a paragraph in the paper recorded that his yacht had touched at Mentone and that he had been seen at the Monte Carlo tables, or that he was expected in Leicestershire for the season. He was a man of no force of brain or character, though occasionally he swayed public affairs by a manifesto printed in larger type upon his own front page. Without being dissolute, he was a free liver, living in a constant luxury which placed him always on the edge of vice and occasionally over the border. Malone’s hot blood flushed to his head as he thought of this trifler, this insect, coming between mankind and a message of instruction and consolation descending from above. And yet those clumsy, childish fingers could actually turn the tap and cut off the divine stream, however much it might break through in other quarters. “So that is final, Mr. Malone,” said Beaumont, with the manner of one who ends an argument. “Quite final!” said Malone. “So final that it marks the end of my connection with your paper. I have a six month’s contract. When it ends, I go!” “Please yourself, Mr. Malone.” Mr. Beaumont went on with his writing. Malone, with the flush of battle still upon him, went into McArdle’s room and told him what had happened. The old Scotch sub-editor was very perturbed. “Eh, man, it’s that Irish blood of yours. A drop o’ Scotch is a good thing, either in your veins or at the bottom o’ a glass. Go back, man, and say you have reconseedered!” “Not I! The idea of this man Cornelius, with his pot-belly and red face, and--well, you know all about his private life--the idea of such a man dictating what folk are to believe, and asking me to make fun of the holiest thing on this earth!” “Man, you’ll be ruined!” “Well, better men than I have been ruined over this cause. But I’ll get another job.” “Not if Cornelius can stop you. If you get the name of an insubordinate dog there is no place for you in Fleet Street.” “It’s a damned shame!” cried Malone. “The way this thing has been treated is a disgrace to journalism. It’s not Britain alone. America is worse. We seem to have the lowest, most soulless folk that ever lived on the Press--good-hearted fellows too, but material to a man. And these are the leaders of the people! It’s awful!” McArdle put a fatherly hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “Weel, weel, lad, we take the world as we find it. We didn’t make it and we’re no reesponsible. Give it time! Give it time! We’re a’ in such a hurry. Gang hame, noo, think it over, remember your career, that young leddy of yours, and then come back and eat the old pie that all of us have to eat if we are to keep our places in the world.” CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH CHALLENGER HAS THE EXPERIENCE OF HIS LIFETIME