He leaned forward. "Big piece of news down that way. This morning at breakfast, Daly shot his daughter Maisie and the little boy. They are both dead. Daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. The family is shut off alone, and won't see any one." Lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes. "Oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "Oh, how awful!" Mr. Raider did not observe the white horror in Lark's face. "Yes, isn't it?" he said. "I want you to go right down there." "Yes, indeed," said Lark, though she shivered at the thought. "Of course, I will." Lark was a minister's daughter. If people were in trouble, she must go, of course. "Isn't it--awful? I never knew of--such a thing--before. Maisie was in my class at school. I never liked her very well. I'm so sorry I didn't,--oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, I'll go right away. You'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too." "I will, but you run along. Being the minister's daughter, they'll let you right up. They'll tell you all about it, of course. Don't talk to any one on the way back. Come right to the office. Don't stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and--er--comfort them as much as you can." "Yes,--yes." Lark's face was frightened, but firm. "I--I've never gone to the houses much when--there was trouble. Prudence and Fairy have always done that. But of course it's right, and I'm going. Oh, I do wish I had been fonder of Maisie. I'll go right away." And she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. Three hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red with weeping. Mr. Raider met her at the door. "Did you see them?" "Yes," she said in a low voice. "They--they took me up-stairs, and--" She paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in Lark's strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story. "Did they tell you all about it?" "Yes, they told me. They told me." "Come on into my office," he said. "You must write it up while it is fresh in your mind. You'll do it better while the feeling is on you." Lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending. "Write it up?" she repeated confusedly. "Yes, for the paper. How they looked, what they said, how it happened,--everything. We want to scoop on it." "But I don't think they--would want it told," Lark gasped. "Oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. Don't you remember what I told you? The PRESS is a powerful task master. He asks hard duties of us, but we must obey. We've got to give the people what they want. There's a reporter down from Burlington already, but he couldn't get anything out of them. We've got a clear scoop on it." Lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. A huge menacing shadow lowered black behind her. THE PRESS! She shuddered again.