Slowly he closed the book and stood with it between his palms. No word of reply came for an instant and then Sim Burns spoke.
"You've mentioned my uncle's name." His voice was thin. "You'd accuse the dead of takin' Chief Pontiac's money? You'd slander the dead?"
The editor's heart pelted at his ribs. He had wrung it from them!
"The dead? Aye, the dead! And the living, equally smirched, will stand for it!" he cried, and his hand clutching the notebook lashed out in a furious gesture as he stepped backward to fling open the door.
"Two columns of these notes I've read, gentlemen. Do you want me to read the third? Do you want me to shout down these halls the exact value of your thirty pieces of silver? The price that Chief Pontiac has paid and that you have accepted so the people of this country might be defrauded to help a great corporation?"
A movement, sharp and quick and certain as Wes Hubbard skipped from the chairman's platform.
"Shut up, Bryant!" he panted. "Hold your mouth!"
His voice was husky and he trembled as he backed against the door to close it.
The old man did not look at him. He pushed his spectacles upward and his eyes firm, assured and penetrating, ran from face to face slowly before he turned to look at the chairman who stood there, pale and shrunken.
"If I don't choose to shut up? What then?"
"I'll—we'll—," stammered Hubbard, floundering for a threat.
"You'll go, every last one of you, to a larger, finer building than this; but it's a tighter building, more
