Ames was one of the best Washington correspondents in the American press, a fact-getter extraordinary, who had a semi-inspired way now and then of putting down his stuff. He was fifty, a friend of John Higgins and weathered to a fuzzy gray like a fence board. Just now he bluffed out his embarrassment by speaking of one of Melton’s stories which Dicky was professionally familiar with: “A short story in one of the weeklies--called _Dr. Filter_--hell of a good story.... It’s nothing to me,” Ames finished. “Only the kid’s an American, and he’s tight up against one of Paris’ prettiest ways.” Haddon took up the tale: “The Frenchman’s name is Ducier. Melton’s been living at his house--mixed with the daughter--forced to marry. Now Parent Ducier says the least he can do is to get a living for himself out of it--hard times.” “Actually married?” Dicky asked. “Showed me the passport,” said Ames. “I couldn’t get a word alone with Melton. He can’t leave his bed. One of the family always in the room.” Dicky was straining so hard that he resisted easy comprehension. It was an intense moment. There was more talk. “Of course, whatever you want from me----” Dicky broke in. “What you can spare,” Haddon said. “The parents ask twenty thousand francs, but they’ll take half that easy. Just now the boy’s too sick to escape.” “Count on me for at least half of whatever it costs,” Dicky said. Haddon’s eyes widened. Ames looked astonished. “I’ve heard Cobden is rich, Ames,” Haddon explained. The gray one came closer and examined Dicky’s face. “I heard it, too,” he said. “You really mean this?” “I would give you the amount now, but I understand that you aren’t sure what it will be. I know Melton. I’m glad to help, of course.” “I’ve heard you were rich, too,” Ames repeated slowly. “But I didn’t believe it.” “Why not?” “You’re too good a newspaper man,” said Ames. “I didn’t think a man could have real money and be as good a newspaper man as you.” Dicky hardly heard the tribute. The two men were leaving. That was the important thing.... He was alone. An intermittent geyser was at work within him. Every few minutes a surge of hot hope boiled up in his breast. It threatened to deluge him. Out of all the year’s work was netted at this time one bit of working knowledge, as Nagar might have called it, that he must _not_ be deluded by this hope! He tried to cork it up; failing in that he stood as still as he could in the midst of the surges. Gradually, he got the thing in hand, but it was bitter work, this refusing to take the first real breath of life he had known for years.