IV

As we sat in silence, my brain seemed somewhat numbed and dulled

after the exaltation and excitement of the strange revelation. My

mental condition was such that I wanted to believe that Henry and his

co-worker, Olinski, had done this extraordinary thing, and yet I was

unable, somehow, to believe that they had. How could it be possible?

And yet it was certainly as possible as it was utterly improbable.

I wondered if the reaction of the others to this tremendous discovery

had been similar to mine. As far as the Prince was concerned, it struck

me that it had. I had never known him to be so daring, assured, and

insolent before, and I felt quite sure that he had shown himself to

Henry in such an unfavorable light that his chances for winning Pat's

hand had already passed outside the realm of the possible.

Thank God the wretched business was going to end--and yet, and

yet ... my mind was just going off on a new tack when, without warning,

a thunder-storm broke over our heads. A summer squall, which so often

sweeps down on the Sound, playing havoc with all sailing-craft.

Scarcely half an hour before, the sky over us had been serenely starlit

and cloudless. Now it had become black as ink and streaked with

lightning. The wind howled and the tower seemed to tremble under the

heavy assault of the elements.

Before Henry could get the sectional glass roof closed, the rain

poured in, collecting in little pools on the floor. Jane climbed

up on her chair, fearful of getting her feet wet. Alarmed in the

semi-darkness, I managed to find the switch, and turned on all the

lights.

To my great dismay, the sudden illumination disclosed that Pat was

quite under the Prince's spell again. They were discovered, snuggled

together on a divan, the Prince's arm encircling her waist. She

extricated herself gracefully, with a half-nervous laugh, and then went

back again to his protecting embrace with a little squeal of fright,

when a flash of lightning showed through the glass dome like red fire,

followed instantly by a deafening crash of thunder that seemed to rend

the castle in twain.

"What a relief it would be," said Jane, as she climbed down from her

chair, "if the Creator had given us thunderless lightning."

Her feet had no sooner touched the floor when we all, with one accord,

stared inquiringly at each other. In the lull that so often follows

a thunder-clap, we heard from the outside a distant, muffled cry of

distress. A few moments later, in the renewed rush and beat of the wind

and rain, we heard it again. This time it was a distinct cry of "Help!

Help!"

Visions of the angry sea taking its toll raced through my mind, while I

thought: "Oh, God! Pity the poor sailor that has to be out on a night

like this!" And while these things were going through my mind, Henry

was taking action. He had jumped to the house telephone, and was giving

orders downstairs for our two strong-armed chauffeurs, George and

William, to get their flashlights, and seek out and save the person in

distress.

While Henry was searching frantically in a wardrobe for his rain-coat,

which he always kept conveniently near him for emergencies, the dark,

excited face of Niki, the valet, suddenly appeared at the stairs, just

showing above the floor level like a head without a body.

"Oh, Meester Royce!" cried Niki, in a high-pitched, nervous voice.

"Come--queeck! A man he has been washed ashore. He call for--help."

Niki's head disappeared, and there was a general and excited rush from

the observatory. Pat led the way. She was down the narrow stairs, and

flying along the dark corridor to the elevator before Henry could get

into his rain-coat. Some minutes passed before we found ourselves

assembled in the entrance hall on the main floor.

Henry stood just outside the front door, shouting instructions to the

two chauffeurs. Pat and the Prince stood at a French window, which

opened on the terrace, peering out into the black and tempestuous night.

Greatly to Henry's annoyance, I kept the front door open just a

crack. I felt it my duty to see what was going on, and to impart such

information to those inside. Presently, I heard one of the chauffeurs

calling to Henry. "There's a man lying on the sand near the dock," he

shouted.

Henry cupped his mouth with his hands, megaphone fashion, and called

back: "Do you think he fell off the cliff?"

"No," came the reply, to a very foolish question, I thought.

"Who is he?" Henry shouted again; really a more foolish question than

the first one. "Anybody you know?"

"A stranger," was the chauffeur's reply.

Ten minutes later, the two husky chauffeurs came slowly across the

terrace, supporting between them a bedraggled, hatless young man, who

seemed to have some difficulty in walking. The stranger's fortunate

rescue--from what cruel fate, of course, we did not know at the

time--was a signal for Pat to let out a cry of mingled thankfulness and

relief. "Oh, goody! He's alive!" she exclaimed. Then, pressing her face

closer to the rain-washed window, she added: "I--I wonder who he is?"

One glance was sufficient to show Henry who he was. But I'm sure I gave

a far louder exclamation of astonishment than my brother.

"God bless my life and soul!" I exclaimed. "It's Bob McGinity, the

Daily Recorder reporter!"

Just as suddenly as the recognition had come, the reporter shook

himself free of the two chauffeurs, and rushed up to Henry.

"Mr. Royce!" he said, excitedly. "Will--will you please confirm the

report that--er--that you and Serge Olinski have established radio

connection with Mars?"

Henry for a moment remained perfectly still and mute. His face looked

as dark as the thunder-clouds that were sweeping over the castle. I saw

the whole thing now, clearly enough. The reporter's predicament had

been self-imposed; a ruse to gain personal contact with Henry which had

been denied him by telephone. Anxiously, and puzzled, I watched closely

the two of them.

"Can't I have a word with you--inside?" the reporter pleaded

desperately. The rain ran in little rivers down his face; his dark,

disheveled, kinky hair fringed his brow like the little, curled,

rat-tail bangs that were fashionable when my grandmother was a girl.

"I'm sorry, sir, if I've put you to so much inconvenience," he went on,

"but in a case like this--momentous discovery--well, I've got--"

He got no further. "Not another word!" Henry interrupted sternly,

raising his hand as though to command silence. Turning to the

chauffeurs, he ordered, in a low, harsh voice: "Take him round to the

garage, and dry him out. Then turn him loose--and--be damned with him!"

Just then, I heard a slight sound at my elbow. Pat, somehow, had wedged

her pretty head under my arm, and was peering through the crack of

the door. I had been so engrossed in the unhappy but thrilling scene

outside, I hadn't noticed her presence. Apparently she had seen and

heard everything. As the two chauffeurs, with a firm grip on the

reporter, marched him off to the garage, she spoke. But what she said

was inarticulate. It sounded to me like a heart-cry.

And then, suddenly, an idea came to me. Under her little harmless

affectations and artificialities, Pat was very human. She had contacted

very few young men outside her own exclusive social set; she knew very

little of the outside world. Since childhood, she had been guarded and

protected from the world's disillusions and ugliness, a protection

which only great wealth like ours can give; and she still had the sweet

and tender heart of a child.

Now, it was plain to me, she did not approve of the way Henry was

treating the reporter. A fleeting glimpse of his youth and good looks,

so unlike Henry's description, seemed to increase her interest in him.

Oldish, fat, and almost bald--indeed! Pity for the handsome young

stranger had touched her heart; and pity so often borders on that

emotional danger zone: love.

Of all the unlooked for contingencies which could have arisen, this

seemed to be about the worst. While I shared with Henry the honest

indignation he felt at what he considered unjustifiable trickery and

intrusion, yet I knew, deep down in me, I would side with Pat should

she take the reporter's part. On this she seemed determined, judging

from the expression on her face, cold and resolute, as Henry entered

the hall, still snorting with anger.

In the clatter of voices that followed his return from the field of

storm and conflict, the voice of Pat rose in steady crescendo.

"Uncle Henry! How could you be so inhuman?" she exclaimed. "You make us

all feel--so cheap."

Jane stretched out a warning hand. "Now, darling!" she admonished;

"this is not necessary."

"It is necessary!" replied Pat. "Uncle Henry has behaved shamefully,

and should be scolded. I've half a mind to go to the garage myself, and

apologize to this reporter for Uncle's cruel and unspeakable behavior."

Henry regarded her quizzically for a moment, then smiled. "This has

nothing to do with you, my dear," he said, as Orkins relieved him of

his rain-coat and hat. "Why, I acted in the reporter's best interests.

I sent him to the garage to be dried out when I should have booted him

off the premises."

"But he's wet--and miserable--and disappointed," said Pat, gravely.

"And whose fault is it? Not mine, certainly." Henry chuckled.

"He hasn't a dry stitch on him," moaned Pat; "he may catch pneumonia.

You should send him some dry clothes, and go yourself, and give him

this information he's worked so hard to get. You really ought!"

"No!" thundered Henry, suddenly. "No matter if the papers send an

army of reporters in motors, ships or airplanes, I refuse to give any

information until the proper time, not if they tear the roof off." He

took several fierce strides up and down the hall, then stopped dead,

and again faced Pat. "Why, may I ask, are you so concerned in this

driveling lunatic for news--this interfering, meddlesome young swine?

Why?"

There was a pause. Pat's face took on a wistful look. Then she replied:

"Why? Because I feel sorry for him, I guess. Oh, you don't know,

Uncle, how wonderful this reporter seems to me. Never thinking of

himself--taking dangerous risks--just to get news for his paper. I

never realized until now how people who haven't much money, have to

struggle to make a living. But I suppose life is like that--outside,"

she went on, half meditatively: "struggle and disappointment. In time,

I dare say I'll find out more about life and get used to it, and

pretend not to care--"

"Now, my dear, you're tired out," Jane broke in, in gentle solicitude.

"You've had a tiring day." She laid an entreating hand on Pat's arm.

"Better go to bed."

But once an idea was planted in Pat's brain, she clung to it

tenaciously. Disregarding Jane, and still addressing Henry, she

continued: "But I wouldn't get used to it, and I shall always

care--always!"

"Care about what?" snapped Henry.

"Oh, just feeling I'm better than other people--poor, common people,

and not caring what happens to them. No! I'll be darned if I will!"

"Patricia!" Jane chided.

"Oh, what's the good of pretending we are better than other people,

just because we have everything," Pat retorted boldly. "If this

reporter was in my own set, some young, rotten cad, and had driven

up in a big motor car, and sent in his card, Uncle Henry would have

received him with open arms. Because he is common and poor--"

"Will you be quiet?" Henry interrupted, resentfully. "You talk like a

scullery maid, fed up on bolshevism. I don't feel a bit better than

anybody else, although I am a Royce."

"Very well," murmured Pat, shrugging with hopeless resignation. Then

she turned to Prince Matani, who all this time had stood by rigidly,

like a soldier at attention, and who now clicked his heels together and

said, brightly:

"Now, my dear Miss Patricia, you'll hear from me. Consider yourself

under arrest for behaving so rudely to your uncle. And while

this irrepressible reporter is being dried out, you shall be

court-martialled for conduct unbecoming a--"

Pat stopped him. "Don't talk silly!" she said. Then she smiled thinly.

"Perhaps I have been acting the little fool, but, please, don't rub it

in." She walked away.

The Prince followed her, impetuously. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Straight upstairs and to bed," she replied, wearily. "Why do you ask?"

"Because," said the Prince, raising his voice so that Henry might hear,

"I'm afraid, on account of the storm, I shall have to spend the night

here."

"So you shall, Your Highness," Henry responded, readily.

Until this moment, Olinski had contributed nothing to the controversial

dialogue. With complete reconciliation in progress, he moved forward,

and spoke.

"I am sure none of us have anything personally against this audacious

reporter," he said. "Why should we? It's his profession, nosing into

other people's business, that we object to. Anyway, no one wants a

reporter running over the premises like a mouse looking for cheese.

And now that our dear Patricia appears to have thought the matter

over, and decided that she's made a mistake, I shall prepare to make my

departure."

"No; I forbid you leaving the castle on a night like this," said Henry,

supplementing his remark with a hearty slap on Olinski's shoulder.

Pat looked round at me, standing unmovable and silent, in the

background. The glance that I gave her, I intended as a reminder that

she had my complete understanding and sympathy. Presently she drifted

over to me and whispered something rapidly. I nodded and left the room

unconcernedly.

A few minutes later, I returned from the library, where I had

telephoned to the garage, and learned that the reporter had slipped out

and disappeared into the night while the two chauffeurs were having

their bread and cheese and beer. Patricia did not seem unduly surprised

at the news I brought her.

"This McGinity fellow," I said to her, on the quiet, "struck me, what

little I've seen of him, as being the sort of young man who could play

a game to the limit."

"I shouldn't wonder," she agreed, with a smile that signified a new

interest in life had arisen in her heart.

The hall cleared rapidly. Jane went upstairs with Pat. Prince Matani

was shown to his room by Orkins. I accompanied them in the elevator

as far as the gallery overlooking the hall, where I settled myself

comfortably in the welcome silence and semi-darkness.

I had a slight headache; my head seemed to be in a whirl after the

stirring events of the evening; I wanted to be left alone to meditate.

There was no use of my going to bed and trying to sleep. I glanced at

my watch. It was still early--ten-thirty.

Henry and Olinski had remained behind, and were now seated, conversing

in low tones, at a side table, where there were books and magazines.

Intermittently, I could hear the rain beating against the window panes;

the noise of the wind came in little moaning gasps and flutters.

In fancy, I pictured the reporter, wet and disheartened, making his way

back to the village, over an unfrequented road, against the driving

wind and rain. I felt truly sorry for him. Pat was right. Henry had

treated him shamefully.

As we learned afterwards, the reporter's life had really been

endangered, and he had a perfect right to call for help. In his efforts

to outwit Henry, and knowing he would be stopped at our lodge-gate,

he had hired a fisherman's row-boat, and was seeking entrance to the

castle grounds, by way of our dock, in a second attempt to gain an

interview.

Caught in the sudden storm, and losing one of his oars, his frail craft

had been dashed onto the rocks at the foot of the cliff. Pitched out

headlong among them, he had been rendered semi-unconscious. Coming

to at last, with the waves threatening to engulf him, and unable to

extricate himself, he had called for help. Finally he had managed to

crawl to a safety spot on the shore, where the chauffeurs had found him.

My thoughts so occupied, and enjoying to the utmost the reposeful

darkness and quiet of the gallery, but still reluctant to summon Orkins

to fetch me a cigar and some whiskey, I was just beginning to feel

thoroughly relaxed when I saw a slim, whitish figure, which I knew

at once to be Pat's, come down the dark stairway that connected the

gallery with the upper floor. That she, too, was restless and unable to

sleep, was at once evident. Still, I made no move to accost her, being

content to remain in my comfortable concealment. After a hurried glance

down into the hall, from the head of the grand staircase, she returned

the way she had come, soft and silent as a ghost.

By this time, the murmur of Henry's and Olinski's voices had risen into

boisterous talk and laughter. Apparently they were bent on celebrating

their scientific achievement. Prying a bit, I saw they were indulging

in numerous whiskies and sodas, served by Niki, and smoking the big

cigars of Henry's favorite brand. Orkins, I assumed, was on his usual

round of the doors, in accordance with a time-honored custom of locking

up the castle at eleven o'clock every night. Carrying the keys of some

baker's dozen of doors, he usually began with the front door and ended

up with the smaller ones.

With the soothing sense that the castle was being secured for the

night; mightily pleased over Henry's and Olinski's startling and

triumphant conquest, that extended to the very edge of the infinite

universe, but wondering, too, if the riddle of Mars was really to be

solved at last, and speculating what this would mean to the inhabitants

of the earth, whose appetite for marvels is never satisfied; snug and

secure from the battling elements, I fell into a doze.

Suddenly, I was awakened. Naturally puzzled to know what had roused me,

I rose and stepped noiselessly to the gallery railing and took a view

of what was occurring below, in the hall.

The front door-bell, an ancient contraption, was ringing--spasmodic,

jerky rings, like a person would make who had hurried to a neighbor's

house with some alarming news.

At Henry's command, Niki went to the door, unlocked it and looked out.

As he did so, he gave voice to a sharp, surprised exclamation, causing

me to wonder who would approach the castle at this hour, midnight, on

such a tempestuous night.

V

The midnight visitor was the last person in the world I had thought of

seeing, a district messenger boy, bringing a telegram for Henry. One

of Henry's peculiarities was never to accept a radiogram or telegram

relayed to the castle by telephone from the telegraph office in the

village; it had to be delivered in person, no matter at what hour.

One glance at the messenger, as Henry bade him come in out of the

rain, in tones of warm welcome, and I, like Niki, gave a sharp though

suppressed exclamation. Completely enveloped in a black rubber cloak,

which reached to the top of his puttees, and wearing one of those ugly

rubber hats, with its broad brim turned down and extending well over

his face, so that only his mouth and chin were exposed to view, he

looked almost uncanny.

Catching the bright gleam of the nickel handle-bars of a bicycle parked

outside, when Niki opened the door, I figured that the messenger must

have had a hard pull in the storm. He had had no difficulty in entering

the premises, I knew, as all district messengers were admitted at the

lodge-gate without questioning. Looking uncertain and awkward, he

leaned against the wall, just inside the door, while Niki handed the

message to Henry. He made no move to remove his hat; either he was too

embarrassed, or he didn't know any better.

There was nothing unusual, of course, in a message being delivered at

this hour of the night; the unusual thing was the manner in which

Henry received this one. Over his cups he had grown loquacious, but I

never would have believed him capable of the silly flow, and the amount

of it, that proceeded from his lips on this occasion, a condition in

which Olinski contributed his share of inanities.

"Now, my friend," he began, "I will give you one million dollars if you

can tell me the contents of this telegram before I open it. What do you

think is in it, now?"

"I could do very nicely with the one million dollars," Olinski replied,

"but I regret to say, at the present moment, my eye-sight does not

carry very far beyond the end of my nose."

"You've been drinking too much," said Henry, rather crossly.

"Ah! That realization, at this very moment, crossed my mind," Olinski

admitted. "And my great fear is that you have been drinking too much,

yourself."

"There is the possibility, my friend," Henry returned, gruffly.

"Then you wouldn't advise our having another drink?" Olinski suggested.

"I would scarcely sanction it," said Henry. "Another drink between us,

and we'll both be cock-eyed drunk."

Olinski laughed loudly.

"What are you laughing at?" Henry demanded, in a surly voice.

"That American expression, cock-eyed, it is so--so funny, and--and so

beautifully illustrative of the way you look--to me, now."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I have drunk so much already I

look--cock-eyed?" Henry retorted.

"There is that possibility, my dear friend," Olinski rejoined, rocking

with mirth. "There--there is more than the possibility. You really do

look--cock-eyed."

"No matter if I'm cock-eyed, or squint-eyed," said Henry, "my business

is to ascertain the contents of this telegram--seeing you are too drunk

yourself to tell me beforehand."

"Its contents, we can only conjecture," said Olinski. "My only hope is

that it does not contain bad news. I am really distressed, for I have

an intuition that it does contain bad news. Perhaps--er--another drink

would alleviate my distress."

"You've had quite enough," said Henry. "My only anxiety is that we

shall not be able to sleep off our cups before the sun, and sister

Jane, have risen." As he finished speaking, he ripped the telegram open.

"That would be a great calamity," muttered Olinski, whose remark

coincided with a smothered exclamation of rage from Henry. "Who is it

from? What's happened?" Olinski inquired.

"It's from that damn reporter, McGinity," Henry roared. "For the third

time tonight, he asks for an interview, and a confirmation of our

discovery."

"But I thought he was in the garage--getting dried out," Olinski said.

"Apparently he's at the village." Henry glanced more closely at the

telegram. "Yes; he's at the village, and he wants an answer--quick.

Says he must have my confirmation before two-thirty this morning, which

is the 'deadline' on his paper. Did you ever hear of such unmitigated

gall?"

"These American reporters are capable of acting very shrewdly on

occasions," said Olinski, whose brain seemed to be clearing somewhat.

"And so am I," thundered Henry. He tore the telegram into a thousand

bits and scattered them over his own and Olinski's head. "I shall

ignore his message," he continued. "Any sort of garbled, advance

publicity will entirely spoil the effect of the news of our discovery.

We shall announce it the day before the demonstration, so that it will

come like a thunder-clap, and echo from one end of the world to the

other."

"Still, our position, as far as this reporter, McGinity, is concerned,

is very difficult," Olinski remarked, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

"Some one, unbeknown to us, has, what you Americans call, 'tipped' his

paper off. He may publish the rumor without the facts, which would be

ruinous."

"He wouldn't dare!" Henry cried, hotly. "Besides, he has no facts to

go on. How could he have? It's too tremendous for the human mind to

grasp, without the main facts leading up to our discovery. With all

our precaution for secrecy, how in the world could this reporter find

out that we have not only received, but decoded, these strange radio

messages from Mars, and definitely exchanged messages by short waves

with a race of people as human as ourselves? He's trying to trick me

into giving him the facts, as he did with my discovery of the comet.

I'll bet you a million, he doesn't know what it's all about--hasn't the

remotest idea--"

Olinski interrupted by lifting a finger to his lips, and giving a

prolonged, "Shh!"

"Why the devil shouldn't I talk as I like?" Henry retorted, defiantly.

On second thought, however, he glanced round the hall. Niki was just

moving towards the front door, near which the district messenger still

stood, patiently waiting for the telegram to be signed for; shuffling

uncomfortably from one foot to another, and staring curiously, from

under the rim of his rubber hat, at the various objects of art in the

hall. Two suits of armor, on either side of the fire-place, seemed to

hold his attention.

Leaning over towards Olinski, Henry voiced his growing suspicions in a

low tone. "You don't imagine that this messenger boy wanted to listen,

do you? Or had any motive in listening?"

He had no sooner spoken when he sprang from his chair, as if some idea,

an intuition, had flashed across his mind. He started towards the front

door, where Niki and the messenger were standing.

Olinski halted him by saying, in a low voice: "Here! Here! What are you

doing, my friend? It's damned silly to think this messenger would be

interested in what we've been talking about."

"Leave it to me," Henry counseled in a hoarse whisper. "I've my own

ideas. I shan't be rough with him, but I shall be firm." Then he turned

to Niki, at the same time, jerking his thumb in the direction of the

messenger.

"Niki, will you kindly remove this young man's hat," he commanded.

The valet quickly obeyed his master's order.

"My God!" Henry gasped, staggering as if under the force of a blow.

Quickly recovering, he stepped up to the messenger. "I might have

guessed it would be you," he said. "You are, without exception, the

most asinine and brazen reporter that ever was at large. How dare you

enter my house under false representation, in this disguise?"

McGinity made no reply; just stood his ground.

"I dare say you know it's actionable, your coming here like this,"

Henry went on. "I'll report you to the telegraph company the first

thing in the morning," snapping his fingers under the reporter's nose.

"The telegram was faked. I'll admit that," said McGinity, in a low and

even voice. "But I'm not wearing a district messenger's uniform." He

threw back his great rubber-cloak. "Just my own clothes, dried out,

thanks to you."

"I'll report you to your City Editor," Henry persisted, angrily.

"I'm acting on my own responsibility," McGinity informed him. "My

seeming persistence in making personal contact with you is based on the

soundest principle in the news-getting game--'get your man.'"

"You'll get no information out of me," stormed Henry.

"Please don't forget, Mr. Royce," said the reporter, "that I've

overheard what you and Mr. Olinski have been talking about for the last

ten minutes."

"You--you listened?" Henry exclaimed, aghast.

"You can hardly imagine that I did not want to listen," the reporter

replied; "especially as your conversation gave me sufficient

information of your discovery, on which to build a big story. I can

see it now, with headlines extending clear across the front page of

the Daily Recorder. It's a great story, Mr. Royce, and I'm in luck

to get it exclusive, before our deadline. An amazing discovery, a

scientific achievement that will echo down the ages. Please, allow me

to congratulate you, sir, also Mr. Olinski."

As McGinity concluded, he bowed low, bending from the waist, first to

Henry, and then to Olinski. He bowed elegantly, as though he were an

important guest having cocktails with the two old gentlemen, and not as

an intruder, likely to be kicked out of the house at any moment.

Watching from the gallery, I was astonished at the young man's display

of good breeding; so different from what I had expected to find in

a reporter. I could see that Henry's anger was getting beyond his

control. The reporter's civility seemed to flick him on the raw.

"I've half a mind to break your damned neck," he shouted, shaking his

fist menacingly under McGinity's nose.

"Any attempt to do so--to break my neck--might detain me here

unnecessarily," the reporter rejoined, calmly. "You would facilitate

matters exceedingly if you would allow me to use your house phone to

call my office in the city. I'll have the call reversed, so it won't

cost you a penny. You see--" glancing at his watch "--I want to phone

this story in in time for our last edition, the deadline for which, as

I've already told you, is two-thirty."

Henry did not speak; he only growled, like an infuriated beast, ready

to spring on its adversary.

"Very well, then," the reporter continued, "if you will not let me

use your phone, I shall return to the village, and phone from there.

I have about two hours before the paper goes to press. So I'll say

good-night." He bowed again, very politely, and turned towards the

door. But he never got to the door. Niki blocked his way.

"At him, Niki!" Henry cried furiously.

Niki's mighty arm shot out, and the blow he gave the reporter on the

jaw was cruel and merciless; it was a knockout. McGinity staggered

back against the wall, then crumpled in a heap on the floor. He never

stirred after that.

"Now, you!" exclaimed Henry, shaking his fist at the reporter's

prostrate figure; "you're not going to interfere any longer with my

affairs. No story tonight, my boy! Deadline or no deadline!"

Olinski strode over to Henry. "What are you going to do with him?" he

asked, excitedly.

"Lock him up for the rest of the night," Henry replied.

"Very good," Olinski agreed. "Then, in the morning, we shall bring him

to terms. Bribe him, if necessary."

"That's it," Henry concurred. "That's it, exactly. A good idea. And

he'll fall for it. Oh, he'll fall all right. Meantime," he added with

a sardonic grin, "I shall make him as comfortable as possible for the

night."

"Where on earth are you going to put him?" asked Olinski.

"Where there are no possible means of escape," replied Henry.