It was eight o'clock when Humphrey had the whole story in his mind, and by that time, though he knew he had drunk far too much, he was not so drunk as the other two men.
"There you are, old boy," said the elder man, affectionately. "You can print it all, and keep my name and the name of the firm out of the papers."
"So long," said the younger man, as they parted at the door of the bar. "You won't have another."
"I'd better get back now," Humphrey replied. "Thanks awfully. You've done me a good turn."
He walked back to the office; the late evening papers still bore on their posters the word "Mystery"--but he alone of all the people hurrying to and fro knew the key of the mystery. He had set forth a few hours ago--it seemed years--ignorant of everything, and, behold, he had put a finger into the tragedy of three lives. All that feeling of revolt and hatred of his business passed away from him, and left in its place nothing but a great joy that he had succeeded, where he never dreamt success was possible. After this he knew he must be a journalist for ever, a licensed meddler in the affairs of other people.
And so, with his head throbbing, and his legs a little unsteady, he came back to the office of _The Day_. It was nine o'clock; Rivers had left the office for the night, and O'Brien was out at dinner. He went to Mr Selsey, and told him briefly all he knew.
"Where did you get it from?" Selsey asked.
"From some friends of his; I promised I wouldn't mention the name of the firm of solicitors he worked in."
"Miss Sycamore?" echoed Humphrey, blankly.
"Yes. Haven't you got her? We must know what she says. It mayn't be true."
Humphrey's head swam. He was appalled at the idea of having to go out again, and face the woman in the sordid case. Selsey looked at the clock. "I'll send somebody else up to see her--she's at the Hilarity Theatre, isn't she? You'd better get on with the main story. Write all you can."
He went to the reporters' room; nobody was there except Wratten, just finishing his work. Humphrey sat down at a desk, and began to write. His brain was whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled over one another, until he did not know how to tell them all. He started to write, and he found that he could not even begin the story. He tore up sheet after sheet in despair. The clock went past the quarter and Humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank paper. Wratten finished his work and dashed out with his copy to the sub-editor's room.