Furniss, the oldest reporter on _The Dispatch_, in point of service, was the one man with whom Good would have liked to part company. But he was so distinctly capable, and there was such an utter absence of tangible reason for his dismissal that he remained in his place, a constant, though impalpable, source of irritation. He was the only member of the staff whose distrust of Good's motives remained fixed and unconcealed. It was perhaps not wholly his fault. Temperamentally saturnine, years of service covering "police" had sapped his faith in human nature. To him there was no such thing as altruism. At best it was but a cloak to some subtle form of personal exploitation. Just what Good's "game" was, he did not know. But that he had no confidence in his superior was perfectly evident. Good did everything he could to disarm this hostility, but the only result was to confirm Furniss in the belief that an effort was being made to blind him. Finally Good gave up the task, although he never ceased to regret his subordinate's unconquerable attitude. He was so completely without suspicion himself that distrust of himself in others was peculiarly painful. He and Bassett were in conference one afternoon when Furniss came in. "I've got a tip," he said directly to Bassett, pointedly ignoring Good. "Maybe a story." "Shoot," said Bassett, moving his cigar to the other side of his mouth, which was his method of indicating interest. "The railroads have brought their scrap on the constitutionality of the liability law up to the appellate court. Hennessy of the B. & F. got drunk down state the other night and shot off his face about what was going to happen. He said more than he meant to." "Well." The cigar went back to its former corner. That signified as near excitement as Bassett ever got. "According to him they've gotten one of the court, and they're going to get another--up here." "Yes." Bassett's cigar was only half its former length and disappearing rapidly. "Hennessy's in town to-day. So's Harper of the M. T., Lloyd, of the Western, and several others." "Go on." Bassett had begun on a fresh cigar. "They're all hanging out at the Wellesley--room 416. If anything stirs, it ought to be there." "Yes." "I sized up the place this morning when nobody was there. Also I hired the next room to it. There's a doorway that commands the whole room. It struck me that if we could put a camera covering 416, by way of that doorway, and have another fellow watching through a hole in the wall, the minute they start anything, we'd yank open the door and touch off the flash. I guess we'd have something, what?" "You're not without brains, Furniss," said Bassett unemotionally. "Thanks," said Furniss in a similar tone. Neither tone expressed the feelings of its owner. Bassett never wasted time in praise or blame--until after the matter was concluded. Then he excelled in either capacity. But the present moment called for action, not words.