od. "Pardon me," he said not at all pleasantly, "may I have a word
with Bassett, _Mister_ Good?"

There was nothing for it, but for Good to leave. But his face paled and
his teeth clicked. As the door closed behind him, Bassett swung around
in his chair.

"That was a hell of a thing to do," he snapped. "If he doesn't tie a can
to you, I'll do it myself. Who the devil do you think you are, anyway?"

Furniss only laughed. "Better ask that four-flusher who _he_ is. His
game's going up in smoke to-night, or I miss my guess. I'll show him
up--you watch."

Bassett took the cigar out of his mouth and laid it on the desk.

"What's the answer?"

Furniss' eyes narrowed. "Who's the only judge of the appellate court in
this town?"

Bassett hummed softly. "The hell you say!"

"Exactly. Now you can figure it out. What do you think the virtuous Good
will do when he finds out? Want a double-leaded three column head, won't
he,--with pictures?" Furniss sneered and rolled a cigarette. Bassett
looked out of the window and whistled thoughtfully.

"This is just an ordinary newspaper," said Furniss with significance, as
he went out. Bassett did not turn around. He remained silent and
motionless for a long time. The pile of papers on his desk grew higher
and higher, but he paid no heed. The telephone rang and rang unanswered.
He still sat staring into vacancy, the slow movement of his jaws as they
chewed the cigar, the only sign of life.

One of the office boys expressed it perhaps as well as it could be
expressed.

"Gee," he whispered to his companions, "the Old Man's awful tired." Then
the buzzer rang, and the boy who answered it concluded that it was a
short-lived weariness, or that he had been sadly misinformed.

In the meantime Good had gone to his own office. He was puzzled by the
curious behaviour of Furniss and vaguely apprehensive. The atmosphere
was tense: it bade fair to be a stormy night. He was not given to
credence in signs and portents, but the sullen muttering of the thunder
and the frequent flashes of lightning in the darkening sky filled him
with inexplicable dread. He lit his pipe and tried to tell himself that
it was merely a case of nerves, aggravated by the weather. But the
attempt was a failure. Then the door opened and Roger Wynrod entered,
his face such a picture of health and contentment that even the hardiest
devils could tarry no longer in the room.

"I've been hunting you all day," he cried. "I've g