West’s chin rested upon his hand; his gaze fell dreamily upon the table-top.  Before his mind’s eye there had unrolled a favorite vision—­a white meadow of faces focussed breathlessly upon a great orator.  He recalled himself with a start, a stretch, and a laugh.

“Aren’t you wandering rather carelessly into the future, Plonny?”

“If I am,” said Mr. Neal, solemnly, “it’s because you stand at the crossroads to-day.”

* * * * *

West found the office deserted, his assistant being gone for lunch.  He finished two short articles begun earlier in the day, and himself departed with an eye to food.  Later, he had to attend a couple of board meetings, which ran off into protracted by-talk, and the rainy twilight had fallen before his office knew him again.

Not long after, Queed, already hatted and overcoated to go, pushed open the connecting door and entered.  The two chatted a moment of the make-up of next day’s “page.”  Presently West said:  “By the bye, written anything about the reformatory?”

“Anything!” echoed Queed, with a faint smile.  “You might say that I’ve written everything about it—­the best article I ever wrote, I should say.  It’s our last chance, you know.”

Queed thought of Eva Bernheimer, and a light crept into his ordinarily impassive eye.  At the same time, West’s ordinarily buoyant face fell a little.

“That so?  Let me see how you’ve handled it, will you?”

“Certainly,” said Queed, showing no surprise, though it was many a day since any composition of his had undergone supervision in that office.

It was on the tip of West’s tongue to add, “I rather think we’ve been pressing that matter too hard,” but he checked himself.  Why should he make any explanation to his assistant?  Was it not the fact that he had trusted the young man too far already?

Queed brought his article and laid it on West’s desk, his face very thoughtful now.  “If there is any information I can give you about the subject, I’ll wait.”

West hardly repressed a smile.  “Thank you, I think I understand the situation pretty well.”

Still Queed lingered and hesitated, most unlike himself.  Presently he strolled over to the window and looked down unseeingly into the lamp-lit wetness of Centre Street.  In fact, he was the poorest actor in the world, and never pretended anything, actively or passively, without being unhappy.

“It’s raining like the mischief,” he offered uncomfortably.

“Cats and dogs,” said West, his fingers twiddling with Queed’s copy.

“By the way,” said Queed, turning with a poorly done air of casualness, “what is commonly supposed to have become of Henry G. Surface?  Do people generally believe that he is dead?”

“Bless your heart, no!” said West, looking up in some surprise at the question.  “That kind never die.  They invariably live to a green old age—­green like the bay-tree.”