“Now, you’re near to this person. What is the reason you couldn’t get the secret of this rather remarkable feat of beating a camera, and let us have it? Or why shouldn’t you find out why his picture can’t be taken? Or, better yet, get one for us? I promise you, Mr. Maxwell, I will treat the matter sensibly—or my head reporter will, Mr. Barnes, who, by the way, claims to be a convert. He really believes it is Jesus and all that, and he will write up a story in your own style, if you will help out.

“Besides, it’s your teaching, you know, to forgive your enemies. What better chance can you have than right now? I don’t mind saying, very frankly, that the reason I want this picture is to beat the other papers. Correspondents are headed this way from all over the country. Why should we let them get ahead of our own local press?”

The first feeling that came over Maxwell while Carter was speaking was one of intense anger. But he controlled himself as Carter paused, enough to say calmly, “You will have to excuse me, Mr. Carter, for refusing to do what you ask. I may as well say, I don’t believe in your journalistic methods, and I can’t be a party to them.”

Carter bounded up out of his chair in one of his sudden bursts of rage. “And you call yourself a Christian? You’re one of these whining, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou preachers who go around measuring all other persons with their little standards of conduct, obstructions themselves in the general world of progress.”

Mr. Maxwell rose and simply said, “Good day, Mr. Carter,” and walked out of the office.

As he opened the door, he ran into Barnes who, from the look on his face, had evidently caught part of Carter’s remarks, as the editor had raised his voice. Barnes gave Maxwell a glance of respect, then went on into the office.

Carter was standing by his desk, white lipped and snarling, but he turned about before Barnes could speak and began pawing over things on his desk.

“I have that manuscript you wanted me to read. You told me to bring it back as soon as I was through with it.”

“Well?” That one word could mean almost anything according to Carter’s mood.

Barnes ignored it and went on. “It’s the most remarkable manuscript I ever read, Mr. Carter. What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know yet. Leave it here.”

Barnes put it down on the editor’s desk, and then, judging from Carter’s looks that he did not want to talk, started to go out. But just as he got to the door, Carter called him back.

“Why shouldn’t I publish the manuscript in the Gazette?”

“You could, of course, but . . .”

“But what?”

“It contradicts everything the paper stands for. I don’t believe you would dare print it.”

“I dare do anything I like for my paper,” Carter spoke irritably. Then, calming down, he said, “See here, Barnes. This person, whom you believe is Jesus, annoys me. I’ve got out of sorts over him. I might as well confess to you that this mystery of the cameras haunts me. The correspondents of a dozen big papers are coming here tomorrow. Some of them will arrive tonight. Now, it’s incredible that modern journalism will fall down over this picture business. I want you to go to this meeting Maxwell has arranged for him tomorrow, and by hook or by crook, secure a picture. I don’t care how you get it, just get it. I tried to wheedle Maxwell into helping us out, but he didn’t rise to flattery.”