of the reporter using the probe—"Why don't you shoot him up?"
Instantly, Fisher's face contracted in a spasm of hate that clenched his hands, and drew his legs in under him, and plucked him forward on the arms of his chair. "Him! G— — him! I want him to live just one day longer than I do. I want him to know I 'm on the other side, waiting for him. I—" He stopped, eyeing the reporter. "No, you don't," he said. "You 've got to get it from him."
Colburn returned to his indifference. "I don't contract to publish, you understand."
"Do as you—please about that.… And you 're not to tell him I sent you. See? You 're a reporter come to interview him."
"What 's his name?"
"He 's registered as 'Sims'—S. A. Sims.'"
"What 's his name?"
"Bell—Billy Bell."
Colburn raised himself to his feet. "Across the hall?"
The man limped eagerly to the door, and jerked it open. "There." He pointed. "In there."
Colburn slowly crossed the corridor and rapped on the panel. Some one called faintly: "Come in." As he opened the door before him, he heard the one behind him gently close.
II
Colburn divided all mankind into newspaper men and
