"She died, I believe, but
probably our friend Surface, when he got out, hadn't the slightest
trouble in putting his hands on the money."
"No, I suppose not. An interesting story, isn't it? You'll telephone if
you need anything to-night?"
"Oh, I shan't need anything. The page is shaping up very satisfactorily,
I think. Good-night, my dear fellow."
Left alone, West picked up Queed's closely-written sheets, and leaning
back in his chair read them with the closest attention. Involuntarily,
his intellect paid a tribute to the writer as he read. The article was
masterly. The argument was close and swift, the language impassioned,
the style piquant. "Where did he learn to write like that!" wondered
West. Here was the whole subject compressed into half a column, and so
luminous a half column that the dullest could not fail to understand and
admire. Two sarcastic little paragraphs were devoted to stripping the
tatters from the nakedness of the economy argument, and these Mr.
Queed's chief perused twice.
"The talk of a doctrinaire," mused he presently. "The closet
philosopher's ideas.
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