He looked and saw Bates sitting at a desk, with his head buried in his arms. “Tired,” he thought to himself.
“Hello, Bates,” he said; then, as the other looked up, he gave a start of dismay.
“What's the matter?” he cried.
It was half a minute before Bates replied. His voice was husky. “They sold me out,” he whispered.
“What!” gasped the other.
“They sold me out!” repeated Bates, and struck the table in front of him. “Cut out the story, by God! Did me out of my scoop!
“Look at that, sir,” he added, and shoved toward Montague a double column of newspaper proofs, with a huge head-line, “Gotham Trust Company to be Wrecked,” and the words scrawled across in blue pencil, “Killed by orders from the office.”
Montague could scarcely find words to reply. He drew up a chair and sat down. “Tell me about it,” he said.
“There's nothing much to tell,” said Bates. “They sold me out. They wouldn't print it.”
“But why didn't you take it elsewhere?” asked the other.