“And why did you want to see me again? You can't still care for me. You know the story. You know I was here and didn't see you. You've seen Leslie Ward. You know my past. What you don't know—”
He looked down into her eyes. “A little work, a little sleep, a little love,” he repeated. “What did you mean by that?”
“Just that,” she said simply. “Only not a little love, Dick. Maybe you don't want me now. I don't know. I have suffered so much that I'm not sure of anything.”
“Want you!” he said. “More than anything on this earth.”
Bassett was at his desk in the office. It was late, and the night editor, seeing him reading the early edition, his feet on his desk, carried over his coffee and doughnuts and joined him.
“Sometime,” he said, “I'm going to get that Clark story out of you. If it wasn't you who turned up the confession, I'll eat it.”
Bassett yawned.
“Have it your own way,” he said indifferently. “You were shielding somebody, weren't you? No? What's the answer?”
Bassett made no reply. He picked up the paper and pointed to an item with the end of his pencil.
“Seen this?”