"So I understand. But is Mr. Endor's memory to be trusted? that is the point. He spoke without notes; he has no evidence of what he said impromptu, almost, as it were, on the spur of the moment, at a champagne luncheon. Many a man has wished to take back words, uttered under such circumstances. You see, the difficulty that arises in this case is"—the hooded eyes were opening and fastening upon her—"that three members of our staff who, by the way, were the only reporters there, are in unanimous agreement as to the words Mr. Endor used. They may not be the words Mr. Endor intended to use, but that is hardly a matter for the U. P."
With those eyes fixed on her, Helen felt a chill spread through her veins.
"You see, my dear child,"—the father once more—"the evidence so far as we are concerned is conclusive. Three trusted members of the U. P. staff against one . . . shall I say . . . ra . . . ther . . . no, no, I beg your pardon . . . I'd forgotten he's your fiancé!"
"Last night," Helen managed to say, in spite of the tentacles that pinned her now, "you promised to contradict the U. P. version, and withdraw it from circulation."
"So I did," was the gentle answer. "But I may not have realized . . . quite adequately realized that our version was the only one at that moment in existence. Moreover, it places us in an awkward . . . an immensely awkward position to have to go back on our
