"See here," Mr. Hurd jerked out. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. Did you throw us down on this story?"
I stared at him. For an instant I did not get his meaning. Then it came to me that possibly I should have asked his permission to publish any work outside of the Searchlight columns.
"But," I stammered, "you don't print fiction."
Mr. Hurd tapped the open page with his finger. The unusual quiet of his manner began to impress me. "Is it fiction?" he asked. "That's what I want to know."
Godfrey Morris rose from his desk and came toward us. Until that instant I had only vaguely realized that he was in the room.
"Hurd," he said, quickly, "you're in the wrong pew. Miss Iverson doesn't even know what you're talking about." He turned to me. "He's afraid," he explained, "that Mrs. Brandow confessed to you in Fairview, and that you threw us down by suppressing the story."
For an instant I was dazed. Then I laughed. "Mr. Hurd," I said, "I give you my word that Mrs. Brandow never confessed anything to me."
Mr. Hurd's knitted brows uncreased. "That's straight, is it?" he demanded.
"That's straight," I repeated.
Hurd dropped the magazine on the floor and turned to his papers. "'L right," he muttered, "don't let 't happen 'gain."