CHAPTER VII
Two days later, at the stroke of ten, Frank Doughton sprang from his taxi in front of the office of the Evening Times.
He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh March air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. The fog of last night had vanished, leaving no trace. He caught the scent of Southern lilacs from an adjoining florist shop.
He took the stairs three at a time.
"Chief in yet?" he inquired of Jamieson, the news editor, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock.
"No, he's not down yet. You've broken your record."
Frank nodded.
"I've got to get away early."