The millionaire smiled indulgently.
“Come in,” he said, holding the door open. “I’ll see you in ten minutes, Berger. Bring Miss Smythe with you. I have some letters to dictate.”
Safely within the private office, the young reporter sat on the edge of a large leather-covered chair, and looked at the millionaire as the latter took his position behind a mahogany desk.
“My name is Stevens, sir,” explained the reporter. “They gave me this assignment because our regular man was laid up. They waited for him to come back; but he won’t be in until to-morrow. So I have to get this interview. Your name was on the list — “
“What is it all about?” demanded Jonathan Graham.
“It’s a series of articles we’re running,” said the reporter. “Prominent people are interviewed on the same subject. We get all kinds of different opinions.
“We ask them what they would do if they had only one hour more in which to live — “
Jonathan Graham held up his hand.
“That’s enough,” he said coldly. “I’ve seen that absurd column in the Sphere. One man says that he would call up all of his friends and give them a farewell party. Another says that he would take the opportunity to pay off debts of gratitude.
“That’s the column you mean, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The idea is preposterous. I can’t give you an interview on that subject.”
The reporter looked dismayed.
“It means a lot to me, sir,” he said. “It’s too late for me to see any one else. I have to get the interview, Mr. Graham. I’ll quote you accurately — “
A look of mild sympathy came over the millionaire’s face as he saw the worried expression of the reporter. He arose from his chair, placed his hands behind his back, and strolled to the large open window. There he pressed one knee against the low sill, and looked out at the city.
Finally he turned and faced the reporter.
“I’ll give you a short interview, my boy,” he said, in a kindly tone. “I don’t like the subject, and I would ignore it under ordinary circumstances.
“But I’ll help you out. I’ll tell you just what I would do if I had one hour to live.”
Instinctively, the reporter glanced at his watch and saw that it registered exactly four o’clock.
“At this particular moment,” said Jonathan Graham, “I have several letters to dictate. It is the wind-up of a day’s routine. I shall be finished at exactly five o’clock. That’s just about an hour from now, isn’t it?”
The reporter nodded.
“Very well,” continued the millionaire. “This coming hour is set and established in my mind. I expect to carry it to its normal conclusion.
“It matters not to me whether I have one hour, or one hundred years, of life ahead of me. That hour will be devoted to the work for which I have appointed it.”
While Stevens jotted his notes, the millionaire walked a few steps; then turned and took his position facing the window.
The reporter looked up and spoke.
“What else, sir?” he questioned.
“That is all,” replied the millionaire, resting his knee against the window sill.
“Nothing else, sir?” asked Stevens.
The millionaire retained his pose, which seemed to be a favorite position.
“Nothing else,” he said. “Your interview is over. That will have to satisfy you. I have work to do, and you must go now.”
SHORTLY before five o’clock, Stevens humbly submitted his story to the city editor. The result was a storm of sarcastic disapproval.
“Is this all you got!” exclaimed the city editor. “I wanted a column. You bring me a couple of sticks!”
“That’s all he told me, sir,” said Stevens.
“Didn’t you ask him any questions?”
“No, sir. I told him what I wanted to know; and that’s what he gave me.”
The city editor glared at the copy.
“Stevens,” he said, angrily, “you’re the dumbest man I’ve ever had on the staff. Your work hasn’t been worth a plugged nickel.
“I thought I’d give you a chance to-day. You flopped. This story is so punk that it can’t even be rewritten.”
He started to toss the copy into the wastebasket; then, changing his mind, he thrust it in a desk drawer.
“I’m keeping it, Stevens,” he said gruffly, “so there will be no comeback if you kick because I fired you. Don’t bother about any assignments to-night. You’re through right now.
“I sent you out to find out what a man would do if he had one hour to live. You bring back a story that has nothing in it. Jonathan Graham simply ignored the whole idea, and you were too dumb to ask him questions that might get him started.
“The column won’t appear in to-morrow’s paper. Your copy is no good, and neither are you. That’s final. Goodbye.”
“It was very late when I saw Mr. Graham,” pleaded the reporter. “Four o’clock, you know. I mentioned that in the story. He had a lot of work to do — I couldn’t bother him too much — “
“Get out!” ordered the city editor.
Stevens was dejected when he left the newspaper building. He had counted a lot on his job as a reporter. Now it was all over.
He stopped at a lunch wagon near his uptown rooming house, and ate a tasteless meal. Then he went to his lodging.
He sat mournfully in his room until nearly eight o’clock. His mind seemed unable to grasp the fact that his job was gone.
Some one knocked at his door. It was the landlady.
“Telephone call for you, Mr. Stevens,” she said.
The young man walked slowly downstairs and answered the telephone. He recognized the voice of the city editor.
“Hello — Stevens?” came the question.
“Yes, sir,” replied the ex-reporter.
“Get back here to the office, right away. I want to talk to you.”
“But” — Stevens’ voice was doubtful — “I thought you fired me, sir.”
“I did. But I’m hiring you again. You’re due for an increase in salary. I want to discuss it with you.”
“But I don’t understand,” blurted Stevens. “You said — “
“Forget what I said. We’ve put your story on the front page in a two-column box. It’s a scoop!”
The receiver clicked at the other end.
Stevens started for the subway. He stopped at a stand and bought a copy of the final edition of his paper. The big headlines on the front page brought a gasp of astonishment to his lips.
Jonathan Graham was dead! The millionaire had committed suicide by leaping from the window of his office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building, at exactly five o’clock.
He had lived just one hour after his interview!
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW KNOWS
A CHUBBY-FACED man was seated at a desk in his office in the Grandville Building. Before him lay a pile of newspapers. Through his spectacles, he was studying clippings that he had cut from the journals.
Some one tapped at the door. The man arose and opened it, peering into the outer office. It was the stenographer who had knocked.
“It’s nearly five o’clock, Mr. Fellows,” said the girl. “My work is finished. Is it all right for me to leave?”
“Certainly,” replied the round-faced man.
He closed the door and returned to his desk.
This man, despite his quiet and almost lethargic appearance, was in reality a very unusual person.
As Claude H. Fellows, the insurance broker, he had a wide circle of acquaintances, who looked upon him as a prosaic business man. But Fellows’ real work in life was more dramatic. He was the confidential agent of that mysterious personage called The Shadow.