"You must be very tired, dear."
"I am tired, Jim," she said, "but I mustn't allow it. I have a big job on hand. Farriss will want three thousand words of this and he'll want it to-night so that he can scoop the town."
"Scoop the town?" Westcott repeated.
"Yes, that means my paper gets a story that no other paper gets. And this Cavendish case is going to be my scoop. Will you walk with me down to the station?"
Big Jim Westcott nodded silently and took her arm in his and together they went out into the night.
Each stone, shrub, each dark frowning cliff reminded them of their meeting, and silently, with their hearts full, they walked along until a dilapidated box car hove into view, with one oil-lamp still burning, twinkling evidence that Carson had not retired for the night; and as they came abreast the door they found him dozing.
"Wake up, Carson," cried Jim, tapping him on the shoulder, "wake up and get ready to do a big job on the keys. And keep your ears open, too, old timer, for it's interesting, every word of it—Miss Donovan is going to tell a story."
Carson rubbed his eyes, sat up, gave ample greeting, got up, lit another lamp, and tested his wire.
"East wire free as air, Jim," he said. "You can begin that there story whenever you want."
And so, weary as she was, and with nerves still high-pitched, Stella Donovan began, slowly at first, until she got the swing of her "lead," and then more rapidly; one after another the yellow sheets on which she wrote were fed past Westcott's critical eyes and into the hands of Carson, who operated his "bug" like a madman.