"Certainly," said Queed, showing no surprise, though it was many a day since any composition of his had undergone supervision in that office. It was on the tip of West's tongue to add, "I rather think we've been pressing that matter too hard," but he checked himself. Why should he make any explanation to his assistant? Was it not the fact that he had trusted the young man too far already? Queed brought his article and laid it on West's desk, his face very thoughtful now. "If there is any information I can give you about the subject, I'll wait." West hardly repressed a smile. "Thank you, I think I understand the situation pretty well." Still Queed lingered and hesitated, most unlike himself. Presently he strolled over to the window and looked down unseeingly into the lamp-lit wetness of Centre Street. In fact, he was the poorest actor in the world, and never pretended anything, actively or passively, without being unhappy. "It's raining like the mischief," he offered uncomfortably. "Cats and dogs," said West, his fingers twiddling with Queed's copy. "By the way," said Queed, turning with a poorly done air of casualness, "what is commonly supposed to have become of Henry G. Surface? Do people generally believe that he is dead?" "Bless your heart, no!" said West, looking up in some surprise at the question. "That kind never die. They invariably live to a green old age--green like the bay-tree." "I--have gotten very much interested in his story," said Queed, which was certainly true enough. "Where do people think that he is now?" "Oh, in the West somewhere, living like a fat hog off Miss Weyland's money." Queed's heart lost a beat. An instinct, swift as a reflex, turned him to the window again; he feared that his face might commit treason. A curious contraction and hardening seemed to be going on inside of him, a chilling petrifaction, and this sensation remained; but in the next instant he felt himself under perfect control, and was calmly saying:-- "Why, I thought the courts took all the money he had." "They took all they could find. If you've studied high finance you'll appreciate the distinction." Amiably West tapped the table-top with the long point of his pencil, and wished that Queed would restore him his privacy. "Everybody thought at the time, you know, that he had a hundred thousand or so put away where the courts never got hold of it. The general impression was that he'd somehow smuggled it over to the woman he'd been living with--his wife", he said. "She died, I believe, but probably our friend Surface, when he got out, hadn't the slightest trouble in putting his hands on the money." "No, I suppose not. An interesting story, isn't it? You'll telephone if you need anything to-night?" "Oh, I shan't need anything. The page is shaping up very satisfactorily, I think. Good-night, my dear fellow."