Part 83 (1/2)
”You let him off without telling his name to-night. And that made me think maybe he wasn't in wrong so far as I thought. Maybe there were--what-ye-call-'em?--mitigating circ.u.mstances. Were there?”
A light broke in upon the Reverend Norman Hale. ”Did you think your son was Milly Neal's lover? He wasn't.”
”Are you sure?” gasped the father.
”As sure as of my faith in Heaven.”
The old man straightened up, drawing a breath so profound that it seemed to raise his stature.
”I wouldn't take a million dollars for that word,” he declared.
”But your own part in this?” queried the other in wonderment. ”I hated to have to say--”
”What does it matter?”
”You have no concern for yourself?” puzzled the minister.
”Oh, I'll come out on top. I always come out on top. What got to my heart was my boy. I thought he'd gone wrong. And now I know he hasn't.”
The old charlatan's strong hand fell on his a.s.sailant's shoulder, then slipped down supportingly under his arm.
”You look pretty shaky,” said he with winning solicitude. ”Let me take you home in my car. It's waiting outside.”
The Reverend Norman Hale accepted, marveling greatly over the complex miracle of the soul of man--who is formed in the image of his Maker.
CHAPTER x.x.xII
THE WARNING
Tradition of the ”Clarion” office embalms ”the evening the typhus story broke” as a nightmare out of which was born history. Chronologically, according to the veracious records of Bim the Guardian of Portals, the tumult began at exactly 10.47, with the arrival of Mr. McGuire Ellis, traveling up the staircase five steps at a jump and calling in a strangled voice for Wayne. That usually controlled journalist rushed out of an inner room in alarm, demanding to know whether New York City had been whelmed with a tidal wave or the King of England murdered in his bed, and in an instant was struggling in the grasp of his fellow editor.
”What's left of the epidemic spread?” demanded the new arrival breathlessly.
”The killed story?”
”What's left of it?” clamored Ellis, dancing all over his colleague's feet. ”Can you find the copy? Notes? Anything?”
”Proofs,” said Wayne. ”I saved a set.”
Ellis sat down in a chair and regarded his underling with an expression of stupefied benevolence.
”Wayne,” he said, ”you're a genius. You're the fine flower and perfect blossom of American journalism. I love you, Wayne. With pa.s.sionate fervor, I love you. Now, _gitta move on_!!!” His voice soared and exploded. ”We're going to run it to-morrow!”
”To-morrow? How? It isn't up to date. n.o.body's touched it since--”
”Bring it up to date! Fire every man in the office out on it. Tear the hide off the old paper and smear the story all over the front page. Haul in your eyes and _start_!”
The whirl of what ensued swamped even Bim's cynic and philosophic calm.
Amidst a buzz of telephones and a mighty scurrying of messengers the staff of the ”Clarion” was gathered into the fold, on a ”drop-everything” emergency call, and instantly dispersed again to the hospitals, the homes of the health officials, the undertakers'