United States or Saint Lucia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !


"Which is The Patriot's; yours or Mr. Marrineal's? I can't," said Io quaintly, "quite see them coalescing." "I wonder if Marrineal has a soul," mused Banneker. "If he hasn't one of his own, let him keep his hands off yours!" said Io in a flash of feminine jealousy. "He's done enough already with his wretched mills. What shall you do about the attack in The Summons?" "Ignore it.

"More active? You have newspaper interests?" "Practically speaking, I own The Patriot. What do you gentlemen think of it?" "Who reads The Patriot?" inquired Banneker. He was unprepared for the swift and surprised flash from Marrineal's fine eyes, as if some profoundly analytical or revealing suggestion had been made. "Forty thousand men, women, and children. Not half enough, of course."

He gives himself out as a man-about-town, and is supposed to make a good thing out of the market. Maybe he does, though I notice that generally the market makes a good thing out of the smart guy who tries to beat it." "Not a particularly desirable person for a colleague." "I doubt if he'd be Marrineal's colleague exactly. The inside of the newspaper isn't his game.

Some dinner party had claimed her, and it was after eleven when she arrived with Archie Densmore. At once Banneker took her aside and laid before her the whole matter. "Poor Ban!" she said softly. "It isn't so simple, having power to play with, is it?" "But how am I to handle this?" "The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal's mother, you said?" "Practically they do." "And she is ?"

The less that Banneker knew about them the more comfortable would he be. So he turned his face away from those columns. The negative which he returned to Marrineal's question was no more or less than that astute gentleman expected. "We carried an editorial last week on cigarettes, 'There's a Yellow Stain on Your Boy's Fingers Is There Another on his Character?" "Yes.

But in this case it was really necessary. Shall we talk it over later?" "Yes," said Banneker listlessly. In the hallway he ran into somebody, who cursed him, and then said, oh, he hadn't noticed who it was; Pop Edmonds. Edmonds disappeared into Marrineal's office. Banneker regained his desk and sat staring at the killed proof.

What he most hoped was some development which would turn Banneker's heavy guns upon Laird so that, with the defeat of the fusion ticket candidate, the public would say, "The Patriot made him and The Patriot broke him." Laird played into Marrineal's hands.

"With pleasure," he said, laughing; "if you'll plead for me with the jury." "Zen here he iss." She stretched a long and, as it seemed, blatantly naked arm into a group near by and drew forth the roundish man whom Cressey had pointed out at Marrineal's dinner party. "He would be unfaithful to me, ziss one." "I? Never!" denied the accused. He set a kiss in the hollow of the dancer's wrist.

His suspicions fully confirmed, Banneker drove away. It was now Ives's move, he remarked to himself, smiling. Or perhaps Marrineal's. He would wait. Within a few days he had his opportunity. Returning to his office after luncheon, he found a penciled note from Ives on his desk, notifying him that Miss Raleigh had called him on the 'phone.

"Carried far enough it is. So far it's only private information for the private archives." "Marrineal's?" "Yes. He and his private counsel, old Mark Stecklin, are the keepers of them. Now, suppose Judge Enderby runs afoul of our interests, as he is bound to do sooner or later.