And so, with his head throbbing, and his legs a little unsteady, he came back to the office of The Day. It was nine o'clock; Rivers had left the office for the night, and O'Brien was out at dinner. He went to Mr Selsey, and told him briefly all he knew.
"Where did you get it from?" Selsey asked.
"From some friends of his; I promised I wouldn't mention the name of the firm of solicitors he worked in."
"What about Miss Sycamore?"
"Miss Sycamore?" echoed Humphrey, blankly.
"Yes. Haven't you got her? We must know what she says. It mayn't be true."
Humphrey's head swam. He was appalled at the idea of having to go out again, and face the woman in the sordid case. Selsey looked at the clock. "I'll send somebody else up to see her—she's at the Hilarity Theatre, isn't she? You'd better get on with the main story. Write all you can."
He went to the reporters' room; nobody was there except Wratten, just finishing his work. Humphrey sat down at a desk, and began to write. His brain was whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled over one another, until he did not know how to tell them all. He started to write, and he found that he could not even begin the story. He tore up sheet after sheet in despair. The clock went past the quarter and Humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank paper. Wratten finished his work and dashed out with his copy to the sub-editor's room.
"I'm drunk," he said to himself. "That's what's the matter."
And later: "What a fool I was to drink so much."