three-column story of the Despatch.

"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,