Bleak's hand went out to the nearest glass. He raised it to his
lips. An almost-forgotten formula recurred to him. "Down the rat-
hole!" he cried, and tilted his arm. The others followed suit, and
the associate director watched them with a glow of perfect
altruism.

The glasses were still in air when the cartoonist emerged from his
room. "Holy cat!" he cried in amazement. "What's going on?" He
seized one of the empty vessels and sniffed it.

"Treason!" he exclaimed. "Who's been robbing the mint?"

"Maybe you can have one too," said Bleak, and turned to where
Quimbleton had been standing. But the mysterious visitor had leff
the room.

"You're too late, Bill," said the city editor genially. "There was
a kind of Messiah here, but he's gone. Tough luck."

"Say, boss," suggested one of the reporters. "There's a story in
this. May I interview that guy?"

Bleak picked up the card and put it in his pocket. A heavenly
warmth pervaded his mental fabric. "A story?" he said. "Forget it!
This is no story. It's a legend of the dear dead past. I'll cover
this assignment myself."

He borrowed a match and lit his pipe. Then he put on his coat and
hat and left the office.