"You and Good with Sato for the pictures ought to cover it," he said crisply. A curious expression twisted Furniss' lips. It was not a smile. It might rather be called a premonition of one. "If they pull off anything it'll be to-night," he said, as Bassett turned back from his insistent telephone. "Both Hennessy and Lloyd I happen to know are going South to-morrow." "I'll save the first column for you," said Bassett with as near a chuckle as he ever permitted himself. "It'll break early, if at all," said Furniss. Then he turned insolently to Good. "Pardon me," he said not at all pleasantly, "may I have a word with Bassett, _Mister_ Good?" There was nothing for it, but for Good to leave. But his face paled and his teeth clicked. As the door closed behind him, Bassett swung around in his chair. "That was a hell of a thing to do," he snapped. "If he doesn't tie a can to you, I'll do it myself. Who the devil do you think you are, anyway?" Furniss only laughed. "Better ask that four-flusher who _he_ is. His game's going up in smoke to-night, or I miss my guess. I'll show him up--you watch." Bassett took the cigar out of his mouth and laid it on the desk. "What's the answer?" Furniss' eyes narrowed. "Who's the only judge of the appellate court in this town?" Bassett hummed softly. "The hell you say!" "Exactly. Now you can figure it out. What do you think the virtuous Good will do when he finds out? Want a double-leaded three column head, won't he,--with pictures?" Furniss sneered and rolled a cigarette. Bassett looked out of the window and whistled thoughtfully. "This is just an ordinary newspaper," said Furniss with significance, as he went out. Bassett did not turn around. He remained silent and motionless for a long time. The pile of papers on his desk grew higher and higher, but he paid no heed. The telephone rang and rang unanswered. He still sat staring into vacancy, the slow movement of his jaws as they chewed the cigar, the only sign of life. One of the office boys expressed it perhaps as well as it could be expressed. "Gee," he whispered to his companions, "the Old Man's awful tired." Then the buzzer rang, and the boy who answered it concluded that it was a short-lived weariness, or that he had been sadly misinformed. In the meantime Good had gone to his own office. He was puzzled by the curious behaviour of Furniss and vaguely apprehensive. The atmosphere was tense: it bade fair to be a stormy night. He was not given to credence in signs and portents, but the sullen muttering of the thunder and the frequent flashes of lightning in the darkening sky filled him with inexplicable dread. He lit his pipe and tried to tell himself that it was merely a case of nerves, aggravated by the weather. But the attempt was a failure. Then the door opened and Roger Wynrod entered, his face such a picture of health and contentment that even the hardiest devils could tarry no longer in the room.