Mr. Doolittle's face wore that look of bland solicitude, that unobtrusive partnership in the misfortune of others, which had made him such an admirable and prosperous officiant at the last rites of residents of Whitewater. "I just wanted to ask you, George--" he was beginning in his soft, lily-of-the-valley voice, when the telephone on George's desk started ringing. George turned and reached for it, to find that Penny had already picked up the instrument. "I'll answer it, George.... Hello... Mr. Remington is here, but is busy; I'll speak for him--I'm Mr. Evans.... What--it's you! Where are you?... Stay where you are; I'll come right over for you in my car." "Who was that?" demanded George. "Genevieve," Penny said rapidly, seizing his hat, "and I'm going----" "So am I!" exclaimed George. "Not till we've had a little understanding," sharply put in Doolittle, blocking his way. "Stay here, George," his partner snapped out--"she's perfectly safe--just a little out of breath--telephoned from a drug store over in the Red-field district. I'll have her back here in fifteen minutes." And out Penny dashed, slamming the door. But perhaps it was the straw-haired successor of Betty Sheridan who really prevented George from plunging after his partner. "You ordered the _Sentinel_ sent up as soon as it was out," she said. "Here are six copies." George seized the ink-damp papers, and as the straw-haired one walked out in rubber-heeled silence he turned savagely upon his campaign manager. "Well, Doolittle?" he demanded. "I just want to ask you, George----" George exploded. "Oh, you just want to ask me! Well, everything you want to ask me is answered in that paper. Read it!" Doolittle took the copy of the _Sentinel_ which was thrust into his hands. George watched him with triumphant grimness, awaiting the effect of the bomb about to explode in the other's face. Mr. Doolittle unfolded the _Sentinel_--looked it slowly through--then raised his eyes to George. His face seemed somewhat puzzled, but otherwise it was overspread with that sympathetic concern which, as much as his hearse and his folding-chairs, was a part of his professional equipment. "Why, George. I don't just get what you're driving at." Forgetting that he was holding several copies of the Sentinel, George dropped them all upon the floor and seized the paper from Mr. Doolittle. He glanced swiftly over the first page--and experienced the highest voltage shock of his young public career. Feverishly he skimmed the remaining pages. But of all that he had poured out in the office of the _Sentinel_, not one word was in print. Automatically clutching the paper in a hand that fell to his side, he stared blankly at his campaign manager. Mr. Doolittle gazed back with his air of sympathetic concern, bewildered questioning in his eyes. And for a space, despite the increasing uproar down in the street, there was a most perfect silence in the inner office of Remington and Evans.