"I feel sorry, too, Mr. Jordan," said Bennington. He played a tattoo on his strong white teeth with his pencil. "Mr. Warrington seems to know you well."
"We began on the Journal together. You will not tell me what your plan is, then?"
"I'd rather not, for honestly, I can not see how it would better the case."
"It might be worth while to give me a chance."
Bennington re-read Warrington's note. Then he studied the frank blue eyes of the reporter.
"Miss Ward, you may go," he said to the stenographer. "Now,"—when the girl had gone,—"you will give me your word?"
"It's all I have."
"How can you convince the men without telling them?"
"Oh, I meant that whatever you tell me shall not see light in the papers till I have your permission. There's a weekly meeting to-night. They will decide finally at this meeting. To-morrow will be too late."
Bennington was an accurate judge of men. He felt that he could trust this shock-headed journalist. If without any loss of self-respect, if without receding a single step from his position, he could avert the crash, he would gladly do so. He had reached one determination, and nothing on earth would swerve him. So he told Ben just exactly what would happen if the men went out. Ben did not doubt him for a moment. He, too, was something of a judge of men. This man would never back down.