Peter, you recall, was a genius. As a genius he fed on his emotional reactions; they were his life. Therefore do not judge him too harshly for the wild thought that at this point rushed over his consciousness with a force that left him breathless. He was frightened and by himself. But there was a barbarous exaltation in his fear. “It'll bring her to her senses,” he thought. “I've got to do it. Then she'll listen to me. She'll _have_ to listen to me then.” Peter appeared in the corner room down-stairs, almost as curiously quiet as Sue had been in their brief talk. He, too, was rather pale. He came over to Sumner Smith's table, dropped down opposite the fat journalist, beckoned a waiter, ordered a light dinner, and, that done, proffered a cigarette. “I've got a tip for you, Smith,” he said, “a real one. If _The Evening Earth_ hasn't lost its vigor you can put it over big.” The fat man merely lighted his cigarette and looked inscrutably over it at Peter's drawn face. “I can't give you the details. You'll have to take my word for them. Did you ever hear a question raised regarding the Reverend Doctor Wilde?” Sumner Smith glanced out toward the bar and Hy. The corners of his mouth twitched. “His boss?” “Right. Editor of _My Brother's Keeper_. Author of the famous missionary sermons.” “There was a little talk last year. You mean the big mission funds he has raised?” Peter nodded. His eyes were overbright now. “Nobody has the evidence, Mann. It isn't news as it stands.” “Suppose you could _make_ it news--big news.” “Oh, of course--” the journalist gestured with his cigarette. “Well, you can. To-night. Go straight to his house--over in Stuyvesant Square, not five minutes in a taxi, not ten on the cars--and ask him point-blank to consent to an accounting. Just ask him.” Sumner Smith mused. “It might be worth trying,” he said. “Take my word for it.” The journalist paid his check, rose, nodded to an acquaintance across the room, said: “I'll think it over, Mann. Much obliged--” and sauntered out. This was unsatisfactory. Peter, crestfallen, forgot that Sumner Smith was hardened to sensations. And peering gloomily after the great reporter, he only half saw the man pause at the small desk near the bar, then speak casually to the now somewhat wobbly Hy Lowe: he only half heard a taxi pull up outside, a door slamming, the sudden grinding of gears as the taxi darted away. There were so many noises outside: you hardly noticed one more. The waiter brought his dinner. He bolted it with unsteady hands. “I must think this all out,” he told himself. “If Sumner Smith won't do it, one of the other _Earth_ men will. Or some one on _The Morning Continental._”