Brennan, Night Editor of the Recorder, scribbled a two-column head, folded it in with a sheet of "flimsy," dropped it into the dumb-waiter box and yanked the string that shot it aloft to the composing room. He reached for his long scissors, snipped off a fresh piece of the typewritten C.A.P. report, fastened it with a daub of paste to a sheet of copy paper and marked it for a single-column "box," Page 1. The whistle blew in the speaking-tube at his elbow and he answered the foreman's question while scribbling his initials to the slip which a newly arrived messenger boy from one of the telegraph companies was holding flat for him.

"'Phone, Bren," called Chic White, Sporting Editor.

Brennan took down the receiver as a reporter laid a wad of new "copy" on the desk and hurried out again. Then Brennan opened a drawer in his desk and took another bite out of a ham sandwich before tearing the envelopes from the newly arrived telegrams.

Up until now things had been very quiet all evening, so quiet that the lay-out of a decent front page was a problem. The Chief had gone home early to-night and had paused on his way out to ask Brennan how the news was breaking and instruct him to "boil everything down." If there was anything that McAllister detested it was a thirty-six point head on a twelve-point item.

"Kerr! Jackson! Brock!"

Every typewriter in the city room stopped clacking and the three reporters jumped. They crowded together in the doorway as Brennan snapped his instructions.

"Get the Chief on the 'phone and hold him for me, Jackson. Here, Brock, sit in at the desk and keep everything down to a couple of sticks. Call a taxi, Kerr."

He glanced at his watch as he made for the stairs. It was ten minutes to 1 a.m. Up in the composing-room he went over the forms with the foreman, asking questions, "killing" perfectly good "stories" with rapid decision, clearing space for the biggest "scoop" which the Recorder had achieved in many months.

"Chief's not home and they don't know where he is," came Jackson's anxious voice through the speaking tube.

"Find him! Find him!" cried Brennan impatiently. "Try the National
Club. Use your head, Jackson!"

But when Brennan hurried downstairs a few minutes later McAllister had not been located yet.

"He went out somewhere with Wade, of the C.L.S., and left no word at the house as to when he'd be back," explained Jackson.

"Call up Wade, then."

"I did, but he's out too, and nobody seems to know where."

Brennan swore.

"Get me Nat Lawson on the 'phone. Say, Chic, where's Pardeau? What? Not back from that assignment? Then see if you can find him for me. The rest of you chop your stuff. Cristy Lawson owns the front page!"

Briefly he answered their eager questions, then turned to listen to Jackson, talking to the Lawson residence. Apparently Nathaniel Lawson was not at home either.

Brennan fiddled with the stem of his watch for a moment. He was in a quandary. He had been taken into McAllister's confidence, of course, regarding this graft exposure story which had been nursed along so carefully. The cuts to illustrate it were locked up in McAllister's desk, he knew. It was unlike the Chief to leave no word of his whereabouts. That it should happen on this of all nights! No doubt they'd locate him after a bit; but in the meantime—? It was nearly one o'clock and Cristy Lawson's wire brooked no delay.

There was only one thing to do—go ahead on his own initiative. Brennan went into McAllister's private office and closed the door while he talked to the Chief of Police on the private line. He came out hurriedly, called Kerr, and went down in the elevator to the waiting taxi. Next to Pardeau, Kerr was the fastest shorthand man on the staff.

They stopped at the Central Police Station to pick up a couple of plainclothes men who were waiting for them and the taxi sped through the almost deserted streets at breakneck pace, heading for the waterfront.

A few minutes later the harbor police launch was streaking across the quiet waters of the bay. It threw a wake that curled and widened, and in it danced the broken reflections of the harbor lights.

The Honorable Milton Waring ushered them into the library with a smile. He was quite calm as he cleared away the blueprints and invited them to find seats.

"You are just in time, gentlemen, to witness the end of the comedy," and he pressed a button beneath the edge of his desk as he spoke. "Pass around the cigars, Blatch, like a good fellow— Well, upon my word!"

"Arrest that man!" cried Ferguson, springing after J. Cuthbert Nickleby, who had made a dash towards the French doors which opened on the verandah.

"It's all right, sir. I've got him," assured one of the detectives who was waiting without for some such move. As he came through the doorway the click of the handcuffs was quite audible to the startled group within the room.

"What's the meaning of this, Waring?" shouted Nickleby, his face distorted with rage. "Are you trying to frame something on me? Take off these bracelets, damn you!"

"I'd advise you to sit down, Nickleby, and keep quiet. You are under arrest and you'll know all about it in a few minutes. Ah, good evening, gentlemen, I'm afraid there aren't chairs enough to go around; but make yourselves at home please."

From the hallway they filed into the library—McAllister, of the Recorder; President Wade, of the Canadian Lake Shores Railway; Nathaniel Lawson, ex-president of the Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company; Timothy Drexel and another director of the same concern. Detective Sainsbury from Headquarters and Parsons, official court stenographer, brought up the rear with Pardeau, star reporter for the Recorder. Their faces were serious and their entry partook of the solemnity of a jury bringing a verdict into court.

A brief whispered colloquy with his editor quickly smoothed the perplexity from Brennan's face. McAllister had picked up Pardeau on the street and had sent a belated message to the office. It was a big "story" that was breaking and he ordered Brennan and Pardeau back to their desks with instructions to hold the galleys till he arrived shortly. Kerr could handle the present end of it. He waved his hand impatiently and focussed his undivided attention upon what was transpiring.

A silence had fallen upon the crowded room and as the Honorable Milton Waring allowed his gaze to rove upon their tense, expectant faces he smiled reassuringly. He began with an explanation of the circumstances leading up to the present situation. It was not merely to adjust Interprovincial Loan Company affairs by the exposure of its official head that he had brought them together. His integrity as a public servant had been questioned and there were certain features that in the interests of clean government required official enquiry. He was prepared to move for the appointment of a royal commission to investigate and report upon conditions vitally affecting financial institutions, election laws and other matters. It was something with which he had concerned himself seriously for several years, and it was partly to prove his theories in this connection that with the assistance of Mr. Blatchford Ferguson he had taken advantage of the situation which had developed in the affairs of the Interprovincial. As a result of their investigations they stood prepared to prove gross mismanagement, falsification of the returns required by the Federal authorities, misuse of trust funds for private ends, attempted corruption of government officials, et cetera.

The Honorable Milton was frank in his admission that during the recent orgy of speculation into which the discovery of new mineral wealth had led the public, he had become personally involved. He was only human and the general excitement had induced him to make several disastrous investments which had left his personal affairs in a precarious tangle for a time. But it was an ill wind that blew nobody good. The financial crisis through which he had passed had brought him in touch with J. C. Nickleby, and it was not long before his eyes had been opened to the unscrupulous methods that were being followed by the president of the Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company. He had called in his learned friend, Mr. Ferguson, and as a result of their consultations it had been decided to make a few experiments in high finance with the object of uncovering the whole system.

To this end they deliberately had cultivated Nickleby's confidence. It was apparent from the first that the man was utterly devoid of common honesty. It was his idea that government graft was an established method of revenue and he seemed to be obsessed with the belief that no Minister of the Crown would allow his oath of office to interfere with the acquisition of personal wealth. As their relations had ripened he had grown bolder and had organized a construction company with the object of using his "connection" to swing certain tenders for public works into the graft column. Nickleby had felt so sure of himself by this time that he even had proposed a contribution of $50,000 to the party campaign funds in return for "privileges." He had been told quite plainly that he would make such a contribution at his own risk. Nevertheless he had gone ahead with it on his own initiative. The money had mysteriously disappeared between the office of the construction company and its destination; it had never reached the party exchequer.

Which brought the Honorable Milton Waring to the point of paying high compliment to the editor of the Recorder. He bowed to McAllister. He had never before quite realized, he said, what a debt all lovers of clean government owed to the press. No man with designs upon the public treasury could go very far without some journalistic watch-dog being on his trail, and it was so in the present instance.

The Alderson Construction Company had aroused the suspicions of Mr. McAllister shortly after it became active. In some way he had learned of the proposed campaign fund contribution and, as it turned out, it was due to the zeal of a Recorder reporter that Nickleby's contribution had been intercepted and photographed. It had then fallen into the hands of Mr. Benjamin Wade by accident and Mr. Wade had deposited the $50,000 in trust, pending proof of ownership.

A few days ago Mr. Wade had come to him with these facts and also to warn him that the Recorder was preparing to accuse him of being implicated with Nickleby and Blatchford Ferguson in a certain doubtful real-estate transaction. Not until then had he realized the risk which Mr. Ferguson and he had assumed in attempting to follow their own line of investigation in secret. The possibility that the hunter might in turn be hunted—and quite legitimately hunted on the face of it—had not occurred to them. They had taken Mr. McAllister into their confidence as soon as they realized the extent of his knowledge, and only his patience and co-operation had enabled them to carry their investigations to fruition.

The real-estate transaction in question had been planned by Mr. Ferguson for the purpose of quieting suspicion in the mind of Nickleby. It was a case of fighting the devil with fire; for had Nickleby not believed that he was dealing with men who were as greedy as himself they would never have succeeded in uncovering the evidence they were after.

As part of their plan, therefore, they had gone to Nickleby with the proposal that the three of them—Nickleby, Ferguson and himself—form a little syndicate on the quiet to buy up a tract of land on which the Government had its eye as a prospective location for the new Deaf & Dumb Institute. The land had a market value of $100,000 and this sum the Government was quite ready to pay. Nickleby had advanced the loan to negotiate the deal and Ferguson had bought up the land in small lots at sacrifice prices from individual owners for a total of $50,000. The Honorable Milton had told Nickleby that he was acting for the Government; but the cheque with which he had "purchased" the land from the syndicate of three had been his personal cheque. The amount was $200,000. The syndicate's profit, therefore, was $150,000 and this sum they had divided in three, $50,000 each. But Nickleby did not know—nor McAllister, either—that the whole thing had been juggled for a purpose, with the sanction of the Attorney General, and that the "profits" which had gone to Mr. Ferguson and himself had been thrown back into the deal when the site had been turned over to the Government, which therefore obtained the land at its legitimate market value, $100,000.

No doubt the whole thing had been indiscreet; but by this time both Ferguson and himself had got so interested in the little game they were playing with the salvation of the loan company as the stakes that they had overlooked the surface appearances. The discovery that every move they had made had been watched by the lynx-eyed McAllister had instilled in them a profound respect.

To bring things to a head and to justify their actions Ferguson and he had undertaken to prove their case against Nickleby by exposing him and his methods to the gentlemen who had last entered the room. These gentlemen had been placed where they could listen to the evidence for themselves and, to make doubly sure, a dictaphone had been installed and an official court stenographer had taken down the whole thing. It was almost incredible that a criminal of this man's type had been able to engineer himself into a place of trust in an institution of such influence as the Interprovincial Loan & Savings Company, to play fast and loose with its credit as he had done, and to bamboozle its directorate. The fact that he had been made to convict himself must plead excuse for the subterfuge in which they had been forced to indulge. It had been a most disagreeable experience and the Honorable Milton Waring was glad that it was over.

"I have only this to say, further, gentlemen," he concluded. "It is no sinecure to hold public office and administer a public trust and I am moved to protest most earnestly against the public tendency to discredit politics and the men who are devoting their energies—frequently at great personal inconvenience and loss—to the government of the country. There are those who cannot seem to admit that it is possible for a man to enter the political arena and remain as honest and sincere in public life as he has been as a private citizen. Such a condition of the public mind is to be deplored, even as the past events upon which the condition is based are to be deplored. If the people look upon government as a joke, the joke is on them; for their government is what they make of it or permit it to be.

"It is my belief that below all government, like the sure-rock foundation of a worth-while edifice, must lie the spirit of fair dealing and a law-abiding citizenship. Let the people determine that corruption in politics will spell political ruin instead of personal aggrandizement and see how swiftly every political yacht will trim its sails. The cry that politics are so rotten that the men who count most in their communities will have nothing to do with active participation in government will then cease and we will have genuine public service.

"I did not intend to make a political speech; but many times of late I have felt like resigning. As long as party success and corporation support dictate our political standards, so long will we have men like Nickleby there attempting corruption, so long will political leadership be forced to dance for its balance upon shifting platforms.

"I thank you, gentlemen, for your attention. The facts I have given you can be substantiated readily by Mr. Ferguson, Mr. Wade and Mr. McAllister; but no doubt the demonstration of the attempt to misuse the loan company's funds to the extent of a quarter of a million dollars—the interview that has taken place in this room tonight—is sufficiently conclusive in itself."

"Conclusive?" piped old Timothy Drexel, unable longer to contain himself.
He elbowed his way towards the prisoner and shook a bony finger in front
of his nose. "You miserable scoundrel!" he exploded. "Old fool, eh?
Putty, eh? You hand me taffy and pat me into any shape you like, eh?
You confounded thief! You—you—!"

"Aw, you shut up!" snarled Nickleby, who had sat through it all with that cynical sneer of his. He knew when he was beaten. With no further word he followed the detectives from the room.

They crowded about the Honorable Milton Waring and Blatchford Ferguson with congratulations. Nathaniel Lawson could not say much; but his grip was tight when he shook hands and his gratitude was evident. McAllister was not given to expressions of sentiment, but as he bade adieu there was an unaccustomed enthusiasm in his keen eyes. His editorial in the morning paper would be strong, very strong; he would call it "The Mantle of Disraeli," or something like that.

Ben Wade stood to one side, watching them take their leave, and his tanned face was alight with satisfaction. There would be a tremendous sensation when the Recorder came out. It would be a bully spread—not one of graft charges, as originally planned by Mac, but even a better story of the fight which an honest politician had been forced to put up in order to remain honest, of the Honorable Milt's investigations and his announcement regarding a royal commission to probe conditions, the escape of the Interprovincial from the criminal activities of its president, the dramatic arrest of Nickleby, the work of Cristy Lawson. Trust Mac not to miss any of it.

And Ben Wade, whose faith in the Honorable Milton Waring had remained unshaken when things looked blackest, smiled as he watched. His advice to McAllister, his faith in Waring, had been vindicated; but he was not thinking of this. He was thinking of another's steadfast faith that had been sorely tried. It would be a happy morrow for Dolly Waring.

"So long, Milt," he said heartily. "We're proud of you, old man."