'There's one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn't know what he's written. No idea. It's a flash of pure genius.'
'Don't know that we've got much use for a genius on the Voice,' grunted Mr Boice. 'He ought to go to Chicago or New York.'
'He will, some day.' Humphrey rose. 'Will you send for him in the morning?'
There was a long silence. Then a sound. Then:—'Tell him to come around.'
'Twelve a week, including this week?'
The massive yellowish-gray head inclined slowly.
'Very well, I'll tell him.'
'You can leave the manuscript here, Weaver.'
'No.' Humphrey deliberately folded it and put it in an inside pocket. 'Henry will have to give it to you himself. It's his. Good-night.'
Out on the street, Humphrey reflected, with a touch of exuberance rare in his life:—