“Well,” she bit her lip and made a row of forefinger prints down the polished edge of the dead man’s desk, “his father wasn’t⁠—wasn’t in sympathy with what he was doing. Since his father really owned the papers, I suppose it was natural for Mr. Donald to think some of the employees might be more loyal to Mr. Elihu than to him.”

“The old man wasn’t in favor of the reform campaign? Why did he stand for it, if the papers were his?”

She bent her head to study the finger prints she had made. Her voice was low.