The anxiety his tone betrayed was not lost upon the young journalist, though Johnson had tried to conceal it. Instantly he concluded the doctor must be interested in the young widow. “Yes,” he commented mentally, “obviously deeply interested.”
“Well, what I have heard,” he said, “came from two sources, and was to the effect that Preston and Mrs. Hartsilver were together trying to conceal some secret of a rather scandalous nature. But, as I say, I don’t believe a word of it.”
“From whom did you hear it?”
“From two fellows in the office—two of our reporters. As you know, or perhaps you don’t know, reporters never give away their source of information, and I told them both to their faces that I knew Mrs. Hartsilver personally, and was convinced the story was a lie.”
“What did they say to that?”
“Oh, they laughed. One of them said that naturally in the circumstances my opinion must be biased, and that subsequent events would show if the report were true or not.”
“They won’t publish anything in the newspaper, will they?” Johnson asked; and Hopford was again struck by the anxiety in his voice and face.
“Set your mind at rest on that point,” he replied. “They dare not. Even if the tale were true, to publish it might be libelous. Certainly I will tell you at once, Johnson, if I hear anything more.”
It was nearly closing time at the Pomme d’Or, and they rose to go.