"That's what I'm here for," Mr. Corby genially responded; "that is, if
you're willing to help me; for I can't get on without your help," he added
with a confident smile.

There was another pause, during which Miss Anson noticed a fleck of dust on
the faded leather of the writing-table and a fresh spot of discoloration in
the right-hand upper corner of Raphael Morghen's "Parnassus."

"Then you believe in him?" she said, looking up. She could not tell what
had prompted her; the words rushed out irresistibly.

"Believe in him?" Corby cried, springing to his feet. "Believe in Orestes
Anson? Why, I believe he's simply the greatest--the most stupendous--the
most phenomenal figure we've got!"

The color rose to Miss Anson's brow. Her heart was beating passionately.
She kept her eyes fixed on the young man's face, as though it might vanish
if she looked away.

"You--you mean to say this in your article?" she asked.

"Say it? Why, the facts will say it," he exulted. "The baldest kind of a
statement would make it clear. When a man is as big as that he doesn't need
a pedestal!"

Miss Anson sighed. "People used to say that when I was young," she
murmured. "But now--"

Her visitor stared. "When you were young? But how did they know--when the
thing hung fire as it did? When the whole edition was thrown back on his