"But the picture's the thing," went on Bassett, in a tone he might have employed in discussing a press-drive. "It ought to set this town by the ears. Wolcott's a big fish to land. Church pillar and all that. Wonder what made him fall. Never had anything on him before. Shouldn't wonder if he shot himself," he added, quite indifferently. Presently a boy brought in the first batch of proofs. Bassett leaped to his desk and buried himself in them. As his pencil moved, fragmentary sentences slipped from his mouth. "Great stuff!"--"Holy Eliza, what a shock to the silk-stockings!"--"St. Viateur's'll need a new vestryman."--"Furniss--you're a bear!"-- Good rose and read listlessly over his shoulder. Then he fell to pacing slowly back and forth. "Plate developed?" he asked finally, in a forced, dead tone. "Bully--bully--" muttered Bassett. "What? The plate--oh--guess so. Why?" "I want it." Bassett turned to his telephone. In a few moments a boy arrived with the negative in his hand. The editor reached for it, but Good anticipated him. He took the plate and stood staring at it stupidly. In the meantime Furniss had entered. "It's all in," he said, with a heavy sigh. "Not bad--eh?" "Best ever," said Bassett shortly. "You're some kid, Furniss." The reporter smiled happily. He wanted no more. Then he turned to Good, and studied him narrowly. But the tall man, his eyes still fixed on the plate, and his face drawn as if in physical pain, took no notice of him. There was silence in the room, broken only by the rustle as Bassett mulled over the proofs. Then there was a crash. The negative lay on the desk ... in fragments. "Good God!" Furniss' hand was poised in mid-air, as if he had been turned to stone. Bassett's eyes were staring like a madman's. Good leaned over and picking up the proofs on the desk, fell to tearing them slowly to bits. At each tear a spasm of pain crossed Furniss' face. But he remained transfixed. "I guess--we won't--run this," said Good dully, as if speaking to himself. The words brought Bassett to life. Like an avalanche, prayers, threats, entreaties, oaths, poured from his lips. He stormed up and down the office, his fists clenched, his clothes awry, his hair tousled. Suddenly he subsided, and in a tone like a girl's, and with a manner which one might use with insanity, he made his entreaties. Then, as suddenly, he burst into frenzy again. Good, staring straight before him, still tearing the proofs into shreds, made no sign. Furniss was silent too. He stared at Good unwinking, as lifeless as if carved from ivory, but with such a look of horror in his face as even Bassett, well-nigh mad with surprise and disappointment, never afterwards forgot. Then, without warning, the look of horror faded. He laughed--bitterly, but easily.