It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, wrote down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, very fast, with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still burning, down to the Gleaner office.
5
The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A.
But there was a light in the windows of the Gleaner office, over Hemple's.
McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand sprawling through his straight ragged hair.
Henry acknowledged his partner's greeting with a grunt; dropped down at his own desk; plunged at the story.
McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good deal.
'There,' said Henry, finally, with a grim look—'there's the reception story.'
'Oh, all right.' McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat on the edge of the table beside Henry's desk.
'Haven't got some good filler stuff?' he queried wearily, brushing a hand across his forehead. 'We're going to have a lot of extra space this week.'