“Well?”
“I couldn’t make him understand. And even if I could, he’s—he’s—well,” he added with a painful effort, “he’s in no condition for you to talk to, Miss West.”
Katherine gazed whitely at the clerk for a moment. Then without a word she stepped by him and passed through the wicker door. With a glance she took in the garishly lighted room—its rows of bottles, its glittering mirrors, its white-aproned bartender, its pair of topers whose loyalty to the bar was stronger than the lure of oratory and music at the Square. And there at a table, his head upon his arms, sat the loosely hunched body of him who was the foundation of all her present hopes.
She moved swiftly across the sawdusted floor and shook the acting editor by the shoulder.
“Mr. Harper!” she called into his ear.
She shook him again, and again she called his name.
“Le’ me ’lone,” he grunted thickly. “Wanter sleep.”
She was conscious that the two topers had paused in mid-drink and were looking her way with a grinning, alcoholic curiosity. She shook the editor with all her strength.
“Mr. Harper!” she called fiercely.
“G’way!” he mumbled. “’M busy. Wanter sleep.”