“Hello, Bassett,” said that gentleman. “We thought you were dead. Well, how about the sister in California? It was the Clark story, wasn't it?”
“Yes,” said Bassett, noncommittally.
“And it blew up on you! Well, there were others who were fooled, too. You had a holiday, anyhow.”
“Yes, I had a holiday,” said Bassett, and going over to his own desk began to sort his vast accumulation of mail. Sometime later he found the night editor at his elbow.
“Did you get anything on the Clark business at all?” he asked. “Williams thinks there's a page in it for Sunday, anyhow. You've been on the ground, and there's a human interest element in it. The last man who talked to Clark; the ranch to-day. That sort of thing.”
Bassett went on doggedly sorting his mail.
“You take it from me,” he said, “the story's dead, and so is Clark. The Donaldson woman was crazy. That's all.”
XXXIII
David was brought home the next day, a shrivelled and aged David, but with a fighting fire in his eyes and a careful smile at the station for the group of friends who met him.