"This is just an ordinary newspaper," said Furniss with significance, as he went out. Bassett did not turn around. He remained silent and motionless for a long time. The pile of papers on his desk grew higher and higher, but he paid no heed. The telephone rang and rang unanswered. He still sat staring into vacancy, the slow movement of his jaws as they chewed the cigar, the only sign of life.
One of the office boys expressed it perhaps as well as it could be expressed.
"Gee," he whispered to his companions, "the Old Man's awful tired." Then the buzzer rang, and the boy who answered it concluded that it was a short-lived weariness, or that he had been sadly misinformed.
In the meantime Good had gone to his own office. He was puzzled by the curious behaviour of Furniss and vaguely apprehensive. The atmosphere was tense: it bade fair to be a stormy night. He was not given to credence in signs and portents, but the sullen muttering of the thunder and the frequent flashes of lightning in the darkening sky filled him with inexplicable dread. He lit his pipe and tried to tell himself that it was merely a case of nerves, aggravated by the weather. But the attempt was a failure. Then the door opened and Roger Wynrod entered, his face such a picture of health and contentment that even the hardiest devils could tarry no longer in the room.
"I've been hunting you all day," he cried. "I've got news."
"A beat?"
"Hardly," he laughed. "All the papers have it. That ought to give you a clue. Can't you guess?"
"Not possibly."
"Well—she'll have me."
"Obviously you're imparting news of great moment," said Good severely. "I've seldom seen you look more completely idiotic. But I don't get you."