The Chief turned again to his letters. That which he opened next was
not the one that was really going to interest him. The place for it was
still the bottom of the pile. He felt this _bonne bouche_ was going to
interest him so much that he would keep it until the very end.
All the same a mild surprise was contained in the second letter. It
was an invitation for a week-end in the country, “to meet some rather
interesting people.” Mr. Hartz permitted himself a faint smile.
The socially gifted Mrs. Carburton was a power in the land, but
emphatically she belonged to “the other camp.” Strictly speaking, the
Colossus was far too big to belong to a camp. Mrs. Carburton did not
belong to one either; but of late years they had not set each other’s
genius. The famous châtelaine of Doe Hill made no secret of her belief
that the U. P. had deliberately wrought the ruin of one of her rather
numerous protégées. She was known to have a deep dislike for Saul
Hartz. But she was important enough as the world went for an invitation
to Doe Hill to be not without piquancy even for him.
Should he accept it? Why not? His attitude of slightly contemptuous
indifference towards women in general was his attitude towards this
woman, but she was a mine of information, and she made a hobby of
gracing her table with the most interesting people in Europe. And for
those alive to the lure of sex, her power of attraction was undoubted.
Few men would have denied that Rose Carburton was, in her way, a siren.
Mr. Hartz was still in the valley of decision, this letter in hand,
when Helen Sholto came into the room. Some two years before, on one of
his brief but frequent trips across the Atlantic, he had found this
remarkably able girl doing odd jobs in the New York office. Taken at
once by her personality, he had brought her to London as one of several
confidential secretaries, to whom, however, he never opened his mind;
and in a post that was no sinecure she had discovered a feminine
quick-thinking competence that had proved of high value. Moreover,
Helen herself, with her charm, her high spirits, her good looks, seemed
to relieve even the gloom and the grime of Cosmos Alley.
The great man had this morning, as usual, a cordial greeting, a benign
smile, to offer her. But it hardly called for his abnormal powers of
observation to see at once that something was wrong. His greeting was
returned with a slight bow. Her face was grave and set. And in prompt
response to the question in his eyes, she said without a word of
preface in a low voice, “I wish to give formal notice to terminate my
engagement here.”
Saul Hartz’s answer was to drum gently with a pencil on his blotting
pad.
“I think it’s cruel!” Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. “The speech
is in all the papers this morning. And the _Planet_ has a leading
article ... after your promise!”
The Colossus gazed at her impassively, and then he said, in that
peculiar soft tone that now made her shiver. “Sit down, my dear child,
and compose yourself. There’s something I have to say to you.”
Against her own reluctant will, Helen took a chair at the side of his
desk, towards which he pointed.
“To begin with,” he said, “let me apologize for a mistake--a
regrettable mistake. The instructions I gave hurriedly last night over
the telephone were misunderstood. But I want you to believe”--the soft
voice was now fused with feeling--“that that mistake, deplorable as it
is, after all, is only of minor importance.”
Helen could only gasp. Of only minor importance! How dare he say that!
“You see, on inquiry, we learn that the speech was made as reported.”
“But Mr. Endor declares that he never used the words attributed to
him,” was Helen’s answer, quick and stern.
“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 own people ...
whom we trust implicitly. However,”--the intense pain in her eyes did
not escape him--“a promise is a promise, even if unwisely given. The
U. P. is going to publish Mr. Endor’s disclaimer, and if I may say so
... if I may claim so much for it ... it is going to have the signal
generosity not to divulge the facts upon which, in my humble judgment,
it is fully entitled to rely. Indeed, having regard to the special ...
the very special circumstances,”--a note of magnanimity was now in the
voice of the Colossus--“I give you my word that the U. P. will not put
in this very strong evidence on its own behalf unless Mr. Endor should
happen to think that an action can lie against it. In that event, of
course, I’m afraid it will have to be a case of _cet animal est très
mechant_!”
“What good,” said Helen, “can this contradiction do Mr. Endor now? The
lie has gone round the world and the truth can never overtake it.”
“Lie is a hard word,” said the Colossus, softly.
“I must believe the man who made the speech,” Helen’s voice trembled.
“I do believe him.”
“We are in a very difficult position, but you can depend on our doing
what we can to set the matter right.”
“It may be too late,” said Helen. “Personally, I feel that it is.
Millions who read the original report in England and America will never
see the contradiction. A speech of that kind may take a man years to
live down.”
“Well, well,”--never had the voice of Saul Hartz sounded more
suasive--“the U. P. must see what it can do in a truly difficult case.
And, in the meantime, let me beg you, as much for your own sake as for
ours, not to desert the old ship.”
A second time Helen’s eyes filmed with tears. “I feel,” she said, “that
I can never work with you again.”
The silence which now constrained them was broken at last by the
hushed, far-away voice which always seemed to hypnotize her. “Have you
realized what it means? Do you quite see all that such a step involves?”
Mournfully she owned that never again did she expect to earn a thousand
dollars a month.
“And John Endor, I believe, is by no means a rich man.”
Helen believed so too. But she permitted herself a modest hope that she
might still be able to earn a good salary.
“In journalism?”
“Yes.”
“That, my dear child,”--once more the father,--“is a point on which it
really becomes my duty to disillusion you. If you break with us, your
career in journalism is at an end.”