vanished. He knew now what he had
feared. And he understood the light in Furniss' eyes. For a moment he
stood on the street-corner, swaying like a drunken man, before his
shoulders straightened and his jaw set, and he made for a taxi.

The office was filled with suppressed excitement when he reached it.
Bassett was chewing one of his interminable cigars, but the gleam in his
eyes betokened the fires in his soul. Bassett wanted very much to get on
the table and howl, but had anyone even so much as suspected that he was
not ice, he would never have recovered from the humiliation.

"Great stuff," he said with exaggerated passiveness. "First galleys will
be up soon. Furniss had most of the story written before he pulled the
thing off. Great lad, Furniss."

But Good, his face grey, the skin, like old parchment, drawn tight to
bursting over his high cheek bones, said never a word. He sank into a
chair, staring straight before him.

"But the picture's the thing," went on Bassett, in a tone he might have
employed in discussing a press-drive. "It ought to set this town by the
ears. Wolcott's a big fish to land. Church pillar and all that. Wonder
what made him fall. Never had anything on him before. Shouldn't wonder
if he shot himself," he added, quite indifferently.

Presently a boy brought in the first batch of proofs. Bassett leaped to
his desk and buried himself in them. As his pencil moved, fragmentary
sentences slipped from his mouth. "Great stuff!"--"Holy Eliza, what a
shock to the silk-stockings!"--"St. Viateur's'll need a new
vestryman."--"Furniss--you're a bear!"--

Good rose and read listlessly over his shoulder. Then he fell to pacing
slowly back and forth.

"Plate developed?" he asked finally, in a forced, dead tone.

"Bully--bully--" muttered Bassett. "What? The plate--oh--guess so. Why?"

"I want it."

Bassett turned to his telephone. In a few moments a boy arrived with the
negative in his hand. The editor reached for it, but Good anticipated
him. He took the plate and stood staring at it stupidly.

In the meantime Furniss had entered.

"It's all in," he said, with a heavy sigh. "Not bad--eh?"

"Best ever," said Bassett shortly. "You're some kid, Furniss." The
reporter smiled happily. He wanted no more. Then he turned to Good, and
studied him narrowly. But the tall man, his eyes still fixed on the
plate, and his face drawn as if in physical pain, took no notice of him.

There was silence in the roo