John Bill was trying to create the impression that he was kept busy in writing the sparkling editorials which the stranger had pretended to admire, but thinking at the last moment that his travelling was his credit, he added, with a modest cough: "Besides, I travel a good deal." But this was not the first time John Bill had tried to create a wrong impression. He foolishly imagined that, being an editor, he was expected to know more than other people; but as he did not, he frequently filled his mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading of them, and then talked of the subject to others, pretending that it had just occurred to him, and usually adding a word or two concerning the popular ignorance. If he encountered a word which he did not know the meaning of, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, usually in connection with arguments to prove that the average man did not understand the commonest words in his language. Nor was this all; John Bill was a deceiver in another particular. He frequently intimated in the _Triumph_ that if he were a rich man he would spend his money liberally in "helping the town;" that is, in mending the streets and sidewalks, and in building manufactories which would give employment to "labor." John Bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never was a poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for taking care of their means. The men who have no money of their own claim to know exactly how money should be invested, but somehow the men who have money entertain entirely different ideas on the subject. Upon invitation the editor told of old Thompson Benton and his disposition; of the beauty of his daughter, and of her talent as a musician; of Allan Dorris's disposition, which seemed to be sour one day, and sweet the next, and so on; all of which the stranger noted in his book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of the town's gossip progressed. When this was concluded, the book in which the notes were made was carefully put away, and the stranger backed toward the door, still keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving a ten-dollar note on the editorial table. "I shall need your services soon," he said, "and I make a small payment in advance to bind the bargain. When the time comes you will know it. Your business then will be to forget this interview. You are also to say nothing about it until you receive the warning to forget. I bid you good-night." So saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the stairway so lightly that his footsteps could not be heard.