There was silence in the room, broken only by the rustle as Bassett mulled over the proofs.
Then there was a crash. The negative lay on the desk ... in fragments.
"Good God!" Furniss' hand was poised in mid-air, as if he had been turned to stone. Bassett's eyes were staring like a madman's.
Good leaned over and picking up the proofs on the desk, fell to tearing them slowly to bits. At each tear a spasm of pain crossed Furniss' face. But he remained transfixed.
"I guess—we won't—run this," said Good dully, as if speaking to himself.
The words brought Bassett to life. Like an avalanche, prayers, threats, entreaties, oaths, poured from his lips. He stormed up and down the office, his fists clenched, his clothes awry, his hair tousled. Suddenly he subsided, and in a tone like a girl's, and with a manner which one might use with insanity, he made his entreaties. Then, as suddenly, he burst into frenzy again.
Good, staring straight before him, still tearing the proofs into shreds, made no sign.
Furniss was silent too. He stared at Good unwinking, as lifeless as if carved from ivory, but with such a look of horror in his face as even Bassett, well-nigh mad with surprise and disappointment, never afterwards forgot. Then, without warning, the look of horror faded. He laughed—bitterly, but easily.
"You see, Bassett—I told you—it's just an ordinary newspaper." He laughed again. The sound sent a shiver down Good's spine. He seemed to hear it echoing and re-echoing in his ears as Furniss went out, the door slamming behind him.
When he had gone, Good turned and faced Bassett, who ceased alike to storm and to plead. The editor was sitting in his chair, chewing his cigar, already regretting that he had so far lost control of himself.