"Micky," he demanded, "have you got that story, all of it?" There was an assenting nod. "Now listen to me, Micky," continued Dick, leaning forward in the dimness, fixing the other's stolid eyes with his own dominant ones, "you're going to turn out that story and it's going to be the story of your life. You won't feel like it, but you're going to do it and it's going to be a dandy. Now get your brain working. Think of that story, every stage of it, from the time you first started out for it till you finished. Fix it in your head, and when the time comes, just spout it. _Don't-think-of-anything-but-that-story!_ Do you understand?" There was but a single word of response, a little thick, but inspiring of confidence. "Sure." Dick sat back with a long sigh. His hands were trembling with excitement. A moment later the cab drew up in front of the Courier office. The elevator sprang upward. As its door was flung back for the trio to emerge, the big editorial clock chimed the hour of midnight. Harkins met them with white face and eyes that revealed the strain of the long hours of suspense. Behind him stared many other eyes, in which shone an overwrought glitter that came of the infectious tension of the situation. "Well, O'Byrn!" Harkins' voice crackled with acrid authority. "Where's your story?" The tone had the effect of a whip lash, awakening the habit of swift obedience born of long training. Micky had stood dumb with blank eyes, to which the scene and the actors seemed strangely remote, like a vague dream. But his chief's question pierced his numbed brain like sharp steel. There was an instinctive attempt to gather his deadened forces. His hand swiftly sought an outer pocket and produced a few penciled fragments which he threw upon a table. "There," he said. "These!" exclaimed Harkins, hastily scanning them. "Well, where are the rest? Did you lose them?" Dick interposed. "You forget, Mr. Harkins," he suggested. "He doesn't have to carry a notebook. Micky, where's the rest of it?" "Why," he answered confusedly, "I remembered it." "Well, do you remember it now?" persisted Harkins. "No," wearily, "not just now." Then, again with that strange gathering of struggling forces, though the words came as if he talked in his sleep, "I'll remember it--after I get started." And he walked straight to his desk, eyes dead ahead like a somnambulist's, unheedful of the men who watched him silently with drawn, anxious faces. It is doubtful if he saw them. Dropping limply into his chair he reached mechanically for his copy paper. "Not that way, Micky," said Dick softly, interposing his hand. "There isn't time. You must dictate it. Here's a man waiting for you."