maney, the editor of the Daily Wire, the other Mrs. Hubert Armstrong.
Both the lady and gentleman came in together at about two o'clock.
Mrs. Armstrong was much changed in appearance. Her face had lost its serenity; her manner was quick and anxious; her voice strained.
The slim, quiet editor, on the other hand, seemed to be untouched by worry. Quiet and inscrutable as ever, the only change in him, perhaps, was a slight briskness, an aroma rather than an actual expression of good humour and bien-être.
They sat down to the meal. Schuabe, in his dark grey frock-coat, the careful ensemble of his dress no less than the regular beauty of his face — now smooth and calm — seemed to be beyond all mundane cares. Only the lady was ill at ease.
The conversation at first was all of the actual news of the day, as it had appeared in the morning's newspapers. Hands's death was discussed. "Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Armstrong, with a sigh; "it is sad to think of his sudden ending. The burden was too much for him to bear. I can understand it when I look round upon all that is happening; it is terrible!"
"Surely you do not regret the discovery of the truth?" said Schuabe, quickly.
"I am beginning to fear truth," said the lady. "The world, it seems, was not ripe for it. In a hundred years, perhaps, our work would have paved the way. But it is premature. Look at the chaos all around us. The public has ceased to think or read. They are reading nothing. Three publishers have put up the shutters during the week."
The journalist interrupted with a dry chuckle. "They are reading the Daily Wire" he said; "the circulation
