"But this is of no possible interest to anyone but ourselves. When my nephew-disappeared, eight years ago, the Westover Times reported it quite-quite incidentally."
"Ay, I know. I looked it up. A small paragraph at the bottom of page three."
"I fail to see why my nephew's return should be of any more interest than his disappearance."
"It's the man-bites-dog affair over again. People go to their deaths every day, but the amount of people who come back from the dead is very small indeed, Miss Ashby. Coming back from the dead, in spite of the advances of modern science, is still a sensation. And that's why the Daily Clarion is going to be interested."
"But how should they hear about it?"
"Hear about it!" Mr. Macallan said, genuinely horrified. "Miss Ashby, this is my own scoop, don't you see."
"You mean you are going to send the story to the Clarion?"
"Assuredly."
"Mr. Macallan, you mustn't; you really must not."
"Listen, Miss Ashby," Mr. Macallan said patiently, "I agreed about the no-photographs prohibition, and I respect the agreement-I won't go sneaking around the countryside trying to snap the young gentlemen unawares, or anything like that-but you can't ask me to give up a scoop like this. Not a scoop of 'London daily' dimensions." And as Bee, caught in the toils of her natural desire to be fair, hesitated, he added: "Even if I didn't send them the story, there's nothing to hinder a sub-editor lifting the story from the Westover Times and making it front-page news. You wouldn't be a scrap better off and I'd have lost my chance of doing a bit of good for myself."