I returned to my desk. I had no idea of going to bed. I was no Napoleon, to slumber soundly on the eve of a decisive battle, but there was nothing else I could do except to sweep the peppermint drops out of sight and tuck the diagrammed blotter behind a radiator. While I was engaged in these homely tasks the bell of my telephone rang.
"Hello, Miss Iverson," I heard when I took down the receiver. "Are you going to be at home to-night?"
My heart leaped at the familiar greeting of Billy Gibson, star reporter of the Searchlight, and one of my stanch friends ever since the days, five long years ago, when he had given me my first lesson in practical reporting. Almost before I could reply to him I noticed something unnatural in the quality of his voice. It was a little too easy, too casual, too carefully controlled.
"Heard any late news about Morris?" asked Gibson.
"News?" I echoed. "What news? What do you mean?"
"Oh, then you don't know."
Gibson's voice was still ostentatiously cheerful, but it dropped a little on his next words.
"Why, he's sick," he said. "Pretty sick. Has pneumonia."
"I didn't know," I said, slowly. It had been difficult to bring out the words. It was for some reason impossible to say more, but Gibson went on without waiting, thus giving me time to think.
"Haven't lost all interest in us, have you, now that you've been away from us a year and are writing plays?" he asked, cheerfully.