A corking feature story staring me right in the face, and I was blind - blind. I must be losing my grip.” He looked anxiously at the clock, tossed aside his cigarette and resumed his chair. Completing the sentence which he had interrupted midway, he continued:

“Sir Frederic was asked what he considered the greatest piece of detective work within his knowledge.

“‘I can not answer that because of the important part played by chance,’ he replied. ‘As I have just said, most criminal cases are solved by varying proportions of hard work, intelligence and luck, and I am sorry I must add that of these three, luck is the greatest by far.

“‘Hard, methodical work, however, has brought results in many instances. For example, it unraveled the famous Crippen mystery. The first intimation we had of something wrong in that case came when we heard that the woman treasurer of a music-hall -’”

Bill Rankin wrote on, with lightning speed now, for he was eager to finish. The thing he was doing had suddenly become a minor matter. A far better story was running through his head. His fingers flew over the keys; when he paused, at rare intervals, it was to turn an inquiring gaze on the clock.

He ripped the final sheet of paper from his machine, snatched up the story, and hurried toward the city editor’s nook. The lone man in charge of the Copy desk, just returned from a bitter argument with the composing-room foreman, watched him sourly as he passed, and grimly sharpened a blue pencil.

“Wha’s ‘at?” inquired the city editor, as Bill Rankin threw the story down before him.

“Interview with Sir Frederic Bruce,” Bill reminded him.

“Oh, you found him, did you?”

“We all found him. The room was full of reporters.”

“Where was he?”

“He’s putting up at Barry Kirk’s bungalow. Kirk knew his son in London. I tried the hotels until my feet ached.”

The editor snorted. “The more fool you. No Englishman ever stops at a hotel if he can wangle board and room from somebody. You’ve been sent out to find enough lecturing British authors to know that.”

“The interview’s blah,” said Rankin. “Every paper in town will have it. But while I was writing it, an idea for a feature hit me hard. It’ll be a humdinger - if I can only put it over on Sir Frederic. I thought I’d go back up there and see what I can do.”

“A feature?” The editor frowned. “If you happen on a bit of news in the course of your literary work, you’ll let me know, won’t you? Here I am, trying to get out a newspaper, and all I get from you fellows is an avalanche of pretty little essays. I suspect you’re all hoping that some day you’ll be tapped for the Atlantic Monthly.”

“But this feature’s good,” Rankin protested. “I must hurry along -“

“Just a minute. I’m only your editor, of course. I don’t want to pry into your plans -“

Rankin laughed. He was an able man, and privileged. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t stop to explain now. Some one may beat me to it yet. Gleason of the Herald was up there to-day and he’ll get the same hunch as sure as fate. So if you don’t mind -“

The editor shrugged.