Mrs. Slade had more than fulfilled her promise towards McKenna. Through her active friendship not only had he secured the entire patronage of her husband, but had finally acquired the coveted field of the Bankers’ Association of America. His agency had tripled in its ramifications and its power. This man, who perceived clearly all the relative, often confusing, shades of morality, was at the bottom an idealist. He undertook two great campaigns: one which resulted in the exposing of the mysterious suzerainty over corrupt politics of a group of outwardly respectable capitalists; and the other in the purification of a great labor union from a band of terrorists, who were betraying their ideals and selling their sympathies. He had still one ambition, which he had confided alone to Mrs. Slade, to whom he was able to render in this period two invaluable services—he wished one day to become Police Commissioner of New York City, and create, in that cemetery of reputations, a great police system that would vie with the systems of Paris and London. Often Bruce Gunther would run into his office at the close of the afternoon. He appreciated the integrity of the detective, and he used him as he was learning to use many men ... as so many windows through which to look out on life. Gunther had not been entirely the dupe of Rita Kildair’s explanation as to the theft of the ring. Above the mantelpiece in the inner office of McKenna, framed in simple passe-partout, hung the two clippings of the same date: one the bare statement of the bank’s support of the Associated Trust, and underneath the engagement of Rita Kildair and John G. Slade. These dramatically aligned scraps of information for the public, never ceased to intrigue him. Many a time he considered a direct question, but refrained from respect. One day, however, pushed to the verge by his curiosity, he said abruptly: "McKenna, are you going to write your memoirs, some day?" "Perhaps—some day!" "You ought to—Publication fifty years from now." "May be ... may be!" "And that affair of the ring," said Gunther, pointing to the notices. "Will you tell the truth about that?" "What! Write down my mistakes?" "Was it a mistake?" McKenna nodded, gazing at the mantelpiece meditatively, with an expression that was indecipherable. "Bad mistake!" "But I should say one of those failures that are sometimes rather fortunate?" persisted Gunther. "Well, it’s a good thing to know how to turn a failure to account. That’s why a few of us get ahead," said McKenna in a matter-of-fact way, but for a moment Gunther seemed to perceive the faintest trace of a smile, lurking maliciously in the corners of his eyes.