“You bet your life I’d fight it,” said Mr. Cord, gayly, “but I fight lots of things without being afraid of them. What’s the use of being afraid? Here I am sixty-five, conservative and trained to only one game, and yet I feel as if _I_ could manage to make my own way even under soviet rule. Anyway, I don’t want to die or emigrate just because my country changes its form of government. Only it would have to be the wish of the majority, and I don’t believe it ever will be. In the meantime there is just one thing I _am_ afraid of—and that’s the thing that you and most of my friends want to do first—suppressing free speech; if you suppress it, we won’t know who wants what. Then you really do get an explosion.” Eddie had got Mr. Cord to be serious now, with the unfortunate result that the older man was more shocking than ever. “Free speech doesn’t mean treason and sedition,” Eddie began. “It means the other man’s opinion.” There was a pause during which Eddie became more perturbed and Mr. Cord settled back to his habitual calm. “Wouldn’t you suppress _anything_?” Verriman asked at length, willing to know the worst. “Not even such a vile sheet as _Liberty_?” “Do you ever see it, Eddie?” “Read a rotten paper like that? Certainly not. Do you?” “I subscribe to it.” And, bending down, Mr. Cord unlocked a drawer in his desk and produced the issue of the preceding day. “I notice you keep it locked up,” said Eddie, and felt that he had scored. “I have to,” replied Mr. Cord, “or else Crystal gets hold of it and cuts it all up into extracts—she must have sent you some—before I get a chance to read it. Besides, it shocks Tomes. You ought to talk to Tomes, Eddie. He thinks about as you do—” At this moment the door opened and Tomes himself entered. “Mr. Moreton would like to see you, sir.” Even Cord’s calm was a little disturbed by this unexpected news. “Mr. Moreton!” he exclaimed. “Not—not—not—not?” “No, sir,” said Tomes, always in possession of accurate information. “His brother, I believe.” “Show him in here,” said Cord, and added to Eddie, as Tomes left the room: “Well, here he is—the editor himself, Eddie. You can say it all to him.” “I don’t want to see such fellows,” Verriman began. “Stay and protect me, Eddie. He may have a bomb in his pocket.” “You don’t really believe that he’s come to—” “No, Eddie, I don’t. I think he’s come like young Lochinvar—to dance a little late at the wedding. To try to persuade me to accept that lazy, good-looking brother of his as a son-in-law. He’ll have quite a job over that.” Then, as the door opened, Mr. Cord’s eyes concentrated on it and his manner became a shade sharper. “Ah, Mr. Moreton, good morning. Mr. Verriman—Mr. Moreton.”