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The city had read the story when Anderson awoke the next morning, for The Intelligencer had made a clean “beat,” and Burns had played up the story tremendously, hence it was with jumping pulses that Paul scanned the front page of that journal. The further he read, however, the greater grew his indignation.

The history of Mabel Wilkes, under the magic touch of Burns, had, to be sure, become a wonderful, tragic story; but nowhere in it was mention made of Paul Anderson. In the patient and ingenious solution of the mystery of the girl’s identity no credit was given to him. The cleverness and the perseverance of The Buffalo Intelligencer was exploited, its able reportorial staff was praised, its editorial shrewdness extolled, but that was all. When he had concluded reading the article Anderson realized that it was no more than a boost for the city editor, who it was plain to be seen, had uncovered the story bit by bit, greatly to the confusion of the police and the detective bureau.

It astounded as well as angered Paul to realize how cleverly Burns had covered him up, therefore the sense of injustice was strong in him when he entered the office. His enemy recognized his mood, and seemed to gloat over it.

“That was good work you did,” he purred, “and I’ll keep you on as long as you show ability. Of course you can’t write yet, so I’ll let you cover real-estate transactions and the market. I’ll send for you when you’re needed.”

Anderson went back to his desk in silent rage. Real estate! Burns evidently intended to hold him down. His gloomy meditations were somewhat lightened by the congratulations of his fellow-reporters, who rather timidly ventured to introduce themselves. They understood the facts and they voiced a similar indignation to his. Burns had played him a rotten trick, they agreed. Not content with robbing his new reporter of the recognition which was justly his, the fellow was evidently determined to vent his spite in other ways. Well, that was like Burns. They voiced the opinion that Anderson would have a tough job getting through interference of the kind that their editor would throw in his way.

Hour after hour Paul sat around the office nursing his disappointment, waiting for Burns to send him out. About two o’clock Wells hurried into the office, bringing with him the afternoon papers still wet from the press. In his eyes was an unwonted sparkle. He crossed directly to Anderson and thrust out his palm.

“Old man, I want to shake with you,” said he. “And I want to apologize for being a rotter.”

Paul met him half-way, and the fellow went on:

“Burns gave us the wrong tip on you–said you were a joke–that’s why we joshed you. But you showed us up, and I’m glad you did.”

“Why–thank you!” stammered the new reporter, upon whom this manly apology had a strong effect. “It–it was more luck than anything.”

“Luck nothing! You’re a genius, and it’s a dirty shame the way the boss tried to steal your credit. However, it seems he overreached himself.” Wells began to laugh.

“Tried to steal it! Good Lord! he did steal it! How do you mean he overreached himself?”

“Haven’t you seen the afternoon papers?”

“No.”

“Well! Read ’em!” Mr. Wells spread his papers out before Paul, whose astonished eyes took in for a second time the story of the Wilkes suicide. But what a story!

He read his own name in big, black type; he read head-lines that told of a starving boy sent out on a hopeless assignment as a cruel joke; he read the story as it had really occurred, only told in the third person by an author who was neither ashamed nor afraid to give credit where it was due. The egotistical pretense of The Buffalo Intelligencer was torn to shreds, and ridicule was heaped upon its editor. Paul read nervously, breathlessly, until Wells interrupted him.