"We ought to have a reporter down there, Mac."
"Denton's there. Well, as there's nothing doing, I'll tackle a little work." And seating himself at his desk beside the broad window Ellis proceeded to annihilate some telegraph copy, fresh off the wire. With the big tenement story spread, the morrow's paper would be straitened for space. Excusing himself to his father, Hal stepped into his private office—and recoiled in uttermost amazement. There, standing in the further doorway, lovely, palpitant, with the color flushing in her cheeks and the breath fluttering in her throat, stood Esmé Elliot.
"Oh!" she gasped, stretching out her hands to him. "I've tried so to get you by 'phone. There's a mob coming—"
"Yes, I know," said Hal gently. He led her to a chair. "We're ready for them."
"Are you? I'm so glad. I was afraid you wouldn't know in time."
"How did you find out?"
"I've been working with Mr. Hale down in the district. I heard rumors of it. Then I listened to what the people said, and I hurried here in my car to warn you. They're drunk, and mean trouble."
"That was good of you! I appreciate it."
"No. It was a debt. I owed it to the 'Clarion.' You've been—splendid about the typhus."
"Worthington doesn't look at it that way," returned Hal, with a rather grim smile.