The last words of my story were the prophecy, and I hurried to the telephone. It was 1 a. m., but the chief himself answered. “I’ll be there with the whole story in half an hour,” I cried exultantly. “Did he see her go down?” asked the chief eagerly. “He did,” I answered, and a long whistle came over the wires. Through dark streets and light, through the roar of upper Broadway and the sombre silence of lower Broadway the motor ran, and I tried to calm my hurrying brain. The excitement which had possessed me every day of the week was still over me. The awful wonder of Joslinn’s tale possessed me, until my longed-for beat seemed but a minor accident in the great happenings of the world. Up the elevator and through the door at a bound I passed, to the chief’s office. He reached eagerly from his chair for my copy. Page by page he read silently, as I sat handing them to him, and passing them from his hands to the boys running back and forth to the tubes. I could hear the crash of the presses, and I thought, strangely enough, of Pendennis and Warrington standing in Fleet Street and talking of the mightiest engine in the world,--the press. And after all, it was my story that was enlightening the world through those great presses below. I had solved the mystery that filled the newspapers from the Atlantic to the Pacific, nay more, that was discussed in the clubs of London and of Tokio, and my story would go through them all. I had won. Twice only I stopped in giving the copy to the chief, once to light my pipe, and once to look up Joslinn. I found him easily in the directory and in Bradstreet’s. He was evidently a man of complete reliability. The last page had gone down the tube, and the chief leaned back and meditatively took up his pipe. “That’s the best stuff for some years, Orrington,” he said. “I guess you’d better take this as a permanent assignment. The prophecy was a long chance, but I guess we’ll take it. Now go to bed.”