"Mr. Imrie," he said genuinely, "I was in your church this morning. I want to tell you that that was one of the biggest things I ever saw. My congratulations probably don't mean much to you, but they're yours without a shadow of a reservation. That was the noblest sermon I ever heard." The man's enthusiasm was so deep and so obviously sincere that Imrie's instinctive antipathy was banished. After all, he told himself on reflection, his dislike for Good was based on his antagonism for the smug hypocrisy, the senseless irreligion that he had himself attacked only that morning. In a way they were brothers in a common cause. It was with a very different feeling than he had expected that he accepted the tall man's congratulations and with the utmost sincerity that he thanked him. Supper proved a gay function. Judith was at her happiest, and Good's anecdotes followed one another in merry succession. Imrie found himself insensibly warming to the man he had disliked so intensely, and rather grateful than otherwise to Judith for having arranged so pleasant a meeting. But when the meal was finished and they were in the library with their coffee, mirth seemed to leave the gathering, and a certain constraint fell upon them all. Each of the men wanted to talk to Judith of matters which were too intimate to share with the other. Their remarks diminished rapidly in frequency and extent, and presently there was complete silence. It was necessary for Judith to break it. She thought it best to get to the heart of things immediately. She addressed herself first to Good. "Shall I tell him what we have done?" she asked, as if not quite sure of herself. The tall man nodded, not very enthusiastically, it seemed to Imrie. "Well...." Again she hesitated. "I suppose it's best to break the news without any preliminaries?" Good nodded his assent. "Still, it's so _very_ surprising--however, the fact is ... we've bought a newspaper--_The Dispatch_!" "Yes?" Imrie refused to show any surprise at all. Obviously he thought it was some subtle jest they were playing upon him. "You don't understand," cried Judith, "I'm the owner of a newspaper." "Well--what for?" "To tell the truth," she said solemnly. Imrie smiled indulgently. "That's praiseworthy, I'm sure," he said ironically. That was too much for Good. Obviously the clergyman did not understand. He must be made to understand. His timidity slipped from him and he plunged into an explanation of the great plans they were making. Imrie listened attentively, and as he caught the significance of the idea his manner changed from scepticism to something approaching enthusiasm. Then his face slowly hardened and a semblance of a sneer formed on his lips. "Telling the truth may get you into trouble," he said half to himself. "Of course," cried Good, "it not only may--it's certain to." Imrie turned to Judith. "Are you as optimistic as Mr. Good?"