As Smith entered, every eye was turned upon him. To an outside spectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed Daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions. Five pairs of eyes were smoldering with a long-nursed resentment. Five brows were corrugated with wrathful lines. Such, however, was the simple majesty of Smith's demeanor that for a moment there was dead silence. Not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in thought, to the editorial chair. Stillness brooded over the room as he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank gracefully into a sitting position. This accomplished, he looked up and started. He gazed round the room. "Ha! I am observed!" he murmured. The words broke the spell. Instantly the five visitors burst simultaneously into speech. "Are you the acting editor of this paper?" "I wish to have a word with you, sir." "Mr. Maloney, I presume?" "Pardon me!" "I should like a few moments' conversation." The start was good and even, but the gentleman who said "Pardon me!" necessarily finished first, with the rest nowhere. Smith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze through his eyeglass. "Are you Mr. Maloney, may I ask?" enquired the favored one. The others paused for the reply. Smith shook his head. "My name is Smith." "Where is Mr. Maloney?" Smith looked across at Betty, who had seated herself in her place by the typewriter. "Where did you tell me Mr. Maloney had gone to, Miss Brown? Ah, well, never mind. Is there anything _I_ can do for you, gentlemen? I am on the editorial staff of this paper." "Then, maybe," said a small, round gentleman who, so far, had done only chorus work, "you can tell me what all this means? My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose name you doubtless know." "Correct me if I am wrong," said Smith, "but I should say it, also, was Waterman." "Luella Granville Waterman, sir!" said the little man proudly. "My wife," he went on, "has received this extraordinary communication from a man signing himself P. Maloney. We are both at a loss to make head or tail of it." "It seems reasonably clear to me," said Smith, reading the letter. "It's an outrage. My wife has been a contributor to this journal since its foundation. We are both intimate friends of Mr. Renshaw, to whom my wife's work has always given complete satisfaction. And now, without the slightest warning, comes this peremptory dismissal from P. Maloney. Who is P. Maloney? Where is Mr. Renshaw?" The chorus burst forth. It seemed that that was what they all wanted to know. Who was P. Maloney? Where was Mr. Renshaw? "I am the Reverend Edwin T. Philpott, sir," said a cadaverous-looking man with light blue eyes and a melancholy face. "I have contributed 'Moments of Meditation' to this journal for some considerable time." Smith nodded.