On the following morning Bruce had just finished an editorial on Doctor West's trial, and was busily thumping out an editorial on the local political situation--the Republican and Democratic conventions were both but a few days off--when, lifting his scowling gaze to his window while searching for the particular word he needed, he saw Katherine passing along the sidewalk across the street. Her face was fresh, her step springy; hers was any but a downcast figure.
Forgetting his editorial, he watched her turn the corner of the Square and go up the broad, worn steps of the dingy old county jail.
"Well, what do we think of her?" queried a voice at his elbow.
Bruce turned abruptly.
"Oh, it's you, Billy. D'you see Blake?"
"Yes." The young fellow sank loungingly into the atlas-seated chair.
"He wouldn't say anything definite. Said it was up to the convention to pick the candidates. But it's plain Kennedy's his choice for mayor, and we'll be playing perfectly safe in predicting Kennedy's nomination."
"And Peck?"
"Blind Charlie said it was too early to make any forecasts. In doubt as to whom they'd put forward for mayor."
"Would Blake say anything about Doctor West's conviction?"
"Sorry for Doctor West's sake--but the case was clear--trial fair--a wholesome example to the city--and some more of that line of talk."
Bruce grunted.
The reporter leisurely lit a cigarette.
"But how about the lady lawyer, eh?" He playfully prodded his superior's calf with his pointed shoe. "I suppose you'll fire me off your rotten old sheet for saying it, but I still think she made a damned good showing considering that she had no case--and considering also that she was a woman." Again he thrust his toe into his chief.
"Considering she was a woman--eh, Arn?"
"Shut up, Billy, or I _will_ fire you," growled Bruce.
"Oh, all right," answered the other cheerfully. "After half a year of the nerve-racking social whirl of this metropolis, I think it would be sort of restful to be back in dear, little, quiet Chicago. But seriously now, Arn, you've got to admit she's good-looking?"
"Good looks don't make a lawyer!" retorted Bruce.
"But she's clever--got ideas--opinions of her own, and strong ones too."
"Perhaps."
The reporter blew out a cloud of smoke.
"Arn, I've been thinking about a very interesting possibility."
"Well, make it short, and get in there and write your story!"
"I've been thinking," continued Billy meditatively, "over what an interesting situation it would make if the super-masculine editor of the _Express_ should fall in love with the lady law----"
Bruce sprang up.
"Confound you, Billy! If I don't crack that empty little----"
But Billy, tilted back in his chair, held out his cigarette case imperturbably.
"Take one, Arn. You'll find them very soothing for the nerves."
"You impertinent little pup, you!" He grabbed Billy by his long hair, held him a moment--then grinned affectionately and took a cigarette.
"You're the worst ever!" He dropped back into his chair. "Now shut up!"
"All right. But speaking impersonally, and with the unemotional aloofness of a critic, you'll have to admit that it would make a good dramatic situation."
"Blast you!" cried the editor. "Shall I fire you, or chuck you through the window?"
"Inasmuch as our foremost scientists are uniformly agreed that certain unpleasant results may eventuate when the force of gravitation brings a human organism into sudden and severe juxtaposition with a cement sidewalk, I humbly suggest that you fire me. Besides, that act will automatically avenge me, for then your yellow old newspaper will go plum to blazes!"
"For God's sake, Billy, get out of here and let me work!"
"But, seriously, Arn--I really am serious now"--and all the mischief had gone out of the reporter's eyes--"that Miss West would have put up a stunning fight if she had had any sort of a case. But she had nothing to fight with. They certainly had the goods on her old man!"
Bruce turned from his machine and regarded the reporter thoughtfully.
Then he crossed and closed the door which was slightly ajar, and again fixed his eyes searchingly on young Harper.
"Billy," he said in a low, impressive voice, "can you keep a big secret?"
At Bruce's searching, thoughtful gaze a look of humility crept into Billy's face.
"Oh, I know you've got every right to doubt me," he acknowledged. "I certainly did leak a lot at the mouth in Chicago when I was boozing so much. But you know since you pulled me out of that wild bunch I was drinking my way to hell with and brought me down here, I've been screwed tight as a board to the water-wagon!"
"I know it, Billy. I shouldn't for an instant----"
"And, Arn," interrupted Billy, putting his arm contritely across the other's shoulder, "even though I do joke at you a little--simply can't help it--you know how eternally grateful I am to you! You're giving me the chance of my life to make a man of myself. People in this town don't half appreciate you; they don't know you for what I know you--the best fellow that ever happened!"
"There, there! Cut it out, cut it out!" said Bruce gruffly, gripping the other's hand.
"That's always the way," said Billy, resentfully. "Your only fault is that you are so infernally bull-headed that a fellow can't even thank you."
"You're thanking me the right way when you keep yourself bolted fast to the water-cart. What I started out to tell you, what I want you to keep secret, is this: They put the wrong man in jail yesterday."
"What!" ejaculated Billy, springing up.
"I tell you this much because I want you to keep your eye on the story. Hell's likely to break loose there any time, and I want you to be ready to handle it in case I should have to be off the job."
"Good God, old man!" Billy stared at him. "What's behind all this? If Doctor West's the wrong man, then who's the right one?"
"I can't tell you any more now."
"But how did you find this out?"
"I said I couldn't tell you any more."
A knowing look came slowly into Billy's face.