A cold rain had been falling steadily all evening. The street lamps flickered dismally through the mist and the trees dripped soddenly. It was a fitting end, he thought, to the dreariest day he had ever known. The morning had seen the ruin of his flowering career, cut down by his own ruthless hand, under no compulsion save that of his own senseless conscience. And the evening, as a bitter crown to the day, had seen the salt of jealousy ground into his wounds. The contrast between himself standing on the brink of indecision, wandering aimlessly from disgust to humiliation, without satisfaction in the past or hope for the future; and that other man--who had no indecision, whose hopes were half realised--made his heart heavy within him. It was a saddened and chaotic Imrie who plodded on through the lonely streets striving to regain some fragment of the philosophy which had deserted him so utterly. CHAPTER VII "IF PEOPLE ONLY _KNEW_!" A little after three o'clock on the afternoon of the day which first saw Judith Wynrod a newspaper proprietor, Good walked into the office of _The Dispatch_ and asked to see Mr. Bassett, the managing editor. "Will you be good enough to indicate the purpose of your visit on this slip," said the old pensioner at the information desk. Good took the pencil held out to him and in a bold hand wrote: "Mr. Good wishes to see Mr. Bassett." Cerberus smiled faintly, as if courtesy alone prevented him from totally ignoring so feeble a jest. "That will hardly suffice, Mr. Good. We have our rules, you know," he said firmly. "Of course," admitted Good patiently. "But all rules have exceptions." "We know none here, sir," said the old man pompously, while loungers in the ante-room smiled their enjoyment of the scene. "But, my dear man," cried Good in exasperation, "I don't want to write him a letter. I want to talk to him. Will you take this in, or will I have to take it myself?" He seemed so capable of carrying out the latter alternative that after some further protestation the disgusted warder disappeared into the private offices. Almost immediately he reappeared, a faint but plainly triumphant smile curling the corners of his lips. "Mr. Bassett says--" he paused significantly. Then he added suavely, "He regrets that he is very busy and is unable to see you." Good smiled. "That's old stuff," he said placidly, with his hand on the wicket. Without further parley he opened it and marched in. A small man in his shirt sleeves, his thin lips grimly compressed, sat at a desk piled high in disorderly confusion, chewing an unlighted cigar. He did not look up as Good entered. But at the latter's deprecating cough he wheeled around in his chair and glared savagely. "How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. "Through the doorway," replied Good mildly. "That door says 'private'--and I'm busy." Good sat down and leisurely drawing his pipe from his pocket filled it.