"You see, Bassett--I told you--it's just an ordinary newspaper." He laughed again. The sound sent a shiver down Good's spine. He seemed to hear it echoing and re-echoing in his ears as Furniss went out, the door slamming behind him. When he had gone, Good turned and faced Bassett, who ceased alike to storm and to plead. The editor was sitting in his chair, chewing his cigar, already regretting that he had so far lost control of himself. "You don't understand, do you?" asked Good with ineffable sadness in his voice. "Yes," said Bassett, half bitterly, half sadly, "I understand." The tall man smiled--if the pitiful, hopeless expression that came into his face could be called a smile, and put his hand on the other's shoulder. "No," he said softly, "you don't." As he went quietly out, from what seemed like a death-chamber, and felt Bassett's hard eyes following him, he knew that in truth something very precious had died that night. In his own office he sat with his head in his hands. "I'm not a machine--I'm only a man," he repeated over and over again, until he heard the refrain without speaking. "If I could only make them understand." His voice was helpless. He knew that he only half understood himself. How long he sat thus puzzling the mystery of his own nature, he never knew. But presently he became aware that he was not alone. The room was in only partial darkness, a street lamp filling it with a sickly glow. He raised his eyes, and for a second time that night, met those of Judge Wolcott. But they were different. The sharp terror had given place to heavy pain. "Hello," said Good, as if this was quite what he had expected. "Mr. Good, I...." The Judge's voice was a pitiful travesty of its former masterful assurance. Never before had the Judge been obliged so to humble himself. "I don't know what I can say--only--I--I...." "You want mercy," said Good brutally. He marvelled at the phrase. That was not what he had meant to say. It seemed to come from lips quite beyond his control. "Not for myself." The old man's tone was inexpressibly sad, yet not without a certain dignity. "There are my daughters. I--I--would spare them." "Belated, eh--a bit, don't you think?" Again Good was amazed at his cruelty. He seemed to be in the grasp of devils. The Judge hung his head. "I don't know what to say," he sighed brokenly. "I only hoped--" "That you could come snivelling to me and beg off, for the sake of your daughters, eh? Well--look here, my friend. You've given us the greatest scoop of the year." Good's tone was as hard as adamant, though there were tears in his heart. "To save your daughters from disgrace, you'd have us give up the thing we live for." "I know--I know--but is it so much?" "It's everything. But let that pass. Here's a thing that counts. Has it occurred to you what would happen to _me_ if I listened to you?" "To you?"