"Unless it be Edmonds over there," he qualified. "All his life he has
fought me as a corporation lawyer; yet I have the queer feeling that I
could trust the inmost secret of my life to his honor. Probably I'm an
old fool, eh?"
Io devoted a moment's study to the lined and worn face of the veteran.
"No. I think you're right," she pronounced.
"In any case, he isn't responsible for The Patriot. He can't help it."
"Don't be so cryptic, Cousin Billy. Can't help what? What is wrong with
the paper?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"But I want to understand," said imperious Io.
"As a basis to understanding, you'd have to read the paper."
"I have. Everyday. All of it."
He gave her a quick, reckoning look which she sustained with a slight
deepening of color. "The advertisements, too?" She nodded. "What do you
think of them?"
"Some of them are too disgusting to discuss."
"Did it occur to you to compare them with the lofty standards of our
young friend's editorials?"
"What has he to do with the advertisements?" she countered.
"Assume, for the sake of the argument, that he has nothing to do with
them. You may have noticed a recent editorial against race-track
gambling, with the suicide of a young bank messenger who had robbed his
employer to pay his losses as text.
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