A whistle came muffled through the fog; they were slowing down. It was a station; the lights, the clamor of human voices, proved it. Eleanor looked out of the window. A knot of young men had broken for the platform; and she could distinguish the black boxes of cameras. There arose a sharp parley at the rear door; her doctor muttered "reporters--damn!" and hurried back. Judge Tiffany rose and followed him. Over her shoulder Eleanor caught the white, intent face of Mark Heath. "He knows; they have told him," she thought. Judge Tiffany, his mind on the practical necessities of the case, still had it in him to admire the control of that good soldier, the modern reporter. When he told simply what had happened, how the issue lay balanced between life and death, Mark only said: "My God!--and me with the story to do!" Then his eye caught Eleanor. "Did she--has she been nursing him?" Judge Tiffany glanced at the other reporters, clustered about the conductor, at the photographers, holding animated wrangle with the physicians about flashlights. "Keep her out of your story--you can do that. Say I found him on the train--put me in--that's a good story enough. Keep my niece out. Keep the others off. Keep those flashlights muffled!" Mark hurried forward. One look, a look which contorted his face, he bent on Bertram. Then he spoke puzzles to Eleanor. "You're Miss Brown, a camper at Santa Eliza, if anyone asks you--and when we leave this train you stay by me and do everything I tell you." "Very well." Mark touched Bertram's face with a tenderness almost feminine. "Poor old man!" he whispered; and he hurried back. A shock-headed youth accosted him. "What's up there?" he asked. "Good story," answered Mark. "I've got it all--don't you fellows bother. Bertram Chester, old California Varsity tackle, real estate manager for Northrup and Co., seriously injured, may not recover. Get his injuries from the doctor. His late employer, Judge Edward C. Tiffany, reached this train at Santa Eliza and has been taking care of him." A voice came from the group of reporters: "Why, he's your roommate!" "I know it--damn it! Keep on. Judge Tiffany has been caring for him, holding him up so he could bear it, assisted by Miss Sadie Brown, a camper at Santa Eliza. She's the one I was talking to." "Who is she? Any chance for a photograph?" "I braced her for a picture. She wouldn't stand for it." "Let me try! I'll get it." "See here, you fellows, I'll attend to that. I'll let you all in if she gives up. I'll play you square. He's my roommate--can't you trust me to handle it? Keep on. Miss Sadie Brown, works at the Emporium, lives 2196 Valencia--" Mark was reading from a perfectly blank sheet of copy paper--"Judge Tiffany will take him home. He wired ahead for a private ambulance from Havens. That's all of that. Now what have you fellows got? Help me out; it's none too easy for me."