"He is dead, and whatever his faults—we all have our faults, Mr. Huber—they died with him. I am here only to ask you to show a decent respect for the memory of a dead enemy. I am here to ask you to be magnanimous, Mr. Huber." "Magnanimous? You talk as if I had won!" "The living are always the winners," said the Judge. Luke began to doubt that theory. "And so you want me to surrender these letters?" "Exactly. What use can they be to you now?" "There were other people involved. Are they willing to accept my terms? I know they can’t hurt me, because I know they haven’t the courage or the power of the man you’ve been talking about. But that’s neither here nor there: will they accept my terms?" "They did not write either of the letters, Mr. Huber." "They’re inculpated by them." "Not legally." "Enough inculpated to serve my purpose." "If you think that," said the Judge, "I can only repeat the offer I made you when I called here before." Luke smiled. "And I can only refuse it." "Mr. Huber," the Judge began again, "the man is dead——" Luke’s nerves had been strained for many a day. He leaped to his feet. "Of course the man’s dead!" he cried. "He was dead this morning, and he’s still dead. Why do you keep saying that over and over? I’m tired of hearing it." He saw the look of pain return. "I beg your pardon," he said; "but I might as well tell you first and last that I won’t surrender those letters, no matter what you plead or threaten. I won’t tell you what I intend to do with them, either. And the only reason I know that they must be of use to me is your coming here and saying they aren’t any use." The Judge rose also. "Mr. Huber," said he, "I am very sorry to hear you speak this way. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You ought to know by this time——" "I couldn’t know anything," Luke cut in, "that would make me change my mind." "But suppose," said the Judge heavily, "suppose my friends happen to know that the situation of the Forbes Company——" Luke’s face went very white. He opened the door. "Good-morning, Judge," he said. §3. Stein’s polite, but portentous adieux were not a quarter of an hour old before Luke sought the office of the newspaper that had been the last to refuse him space in its columns for his political explanations. The man that was dead had, it seemed, left a something of his influence behind him: Luke resolved to strike at it. The office-boy was a long time returning, and, when he did, it was to announce: "He says ter find out whatcher want." "Give me my card," said Luke. He scribbled on the card: "Non-political." "Now," he said, "try him again." §4. The editor was one of those men whom newspaper-work so affects that they look any age between thirty and fifty. His nervous face was full of tense lines, and every few minutes his mouth twitched. Luke told his story and showed the letters. The editor read them. "Why do you want to do this?" he asked.