“Find out if there’s any truth in that,” they commanded. “The old man won’t see you, but get a talk out of Rainey. And see Judge Gaylor. He’s close to Hallowell. Find out from him if that story didn’t start as a bear yarn in Wall Street.” So, when Walsh of the Despatch was conducted by Garrett, the butler of Mr. Hallowell, upstairs to that gentlemen’s library, he found a group of reporters already entrenched. At the door that opened from the library to the bedroom, the butler paused. “What paper shall I say?” he asked. “The Despatch,” Walsh told him. The servant turned quickly and stared at Walsh. He appeared the typical butler, an Englishman of over forty, heavily built, soft-moving, with ruddy, smooth-shaven cheeks and prematurely gray hair. But now from his face the look of perfunctory politeness had fallen; the subdued voice had changed to a snarl that carried with it the accents of the Tenderloin. “So, you’re the one, are you?” the man muttered. For a moment he stood scowling; insolent, almost threatening, and then, once more, the servant opened the door and noiselessly closed it behind him. The transition had been so abrupt, the revelation so unexpected, that the men laughed. “I don’t blame him!” said young Irving. “I couldn’t find a single fact in the whole story. How’d your people get it--pretty straight?” “Seemed straight to us,” said Walsh. “Well, you didn’t handle it that way,” returned the other. “Why didn’t you quote Rainey or Gaylor? It seems to me if a man’s on the point of death”--he lowered his voice and glanced toward the closed door--“that his private doctor and his lawyer might know something about it.” Standing alone with his back to the window was a reporter who had greeted no one and to whom no one had spoken. Had he held himself erect he would have been tall, but he stood slouching lazily, his shoulders bent, his hands in his pockets. When he spoke his voice was in keeping with the indolence of his bearing. It was soft, hesitating, carrying with it the courteous deference of the South. Only his eyes showed that to what was going forward he was alert and attentive. “Is Dr. Rainey Mr. Hallowell’s family doctor?” he asked. Irving surveyed him in amused superiority. “He is!” he answered. “You been long in New York?” he asked. Upon the stranger the sarcasm was lost, or he chose to ignore it, for he answered simply, “No, I’m a New Orleans boy. I’ve just been taken on the Republic.” “Welcome to our city,” said Irving. “What do you think of our Main Street?” From the hall a tall portly man entered the room with the assurance of one much at home here and, with an exclamation, Irving fell upon him. “Good morning, Judge,” he called. He waved at him the clipping from the Despatch. “Have you seen this?”