“What!” gasped the other.

“They sold me out!” repeated Bates, and struck the table in front of him.  “Cut out the story, by God!  Did me out of my scoop!

“Look at that, sir,” he added, and shoved toward Montague a double column of newspaper proofs, with a huge head-line, “Gotham Trust Company to be Wrecked,” and the words scrawled across in blue pencil, “Killed by orders from the office.”

Montague could scarcely find words to reply.  He drew up a chair and sat down.  “Tell me about it,” he said.

“There’s nothing much to tell,” said Bates.  “They sold me out.  They wouldn’t print it.”

“But why didn’t you take it elsewhere?” asked the other.

“Too late,” said Bates; “the scoundrels—­they never even let me know!” He poured out his rage in a string of curses.

Then he told Montague the story.

“I was in here at half-past ten,” he said, “and I reported to the managing editor.  He was crazy with delight, and told me to go ahead—­front page, double column, and all the rest.  So Rodney and I set to work.  He did the interview, and I did all the embroidery—­oh, my God, but it was a story!  And it was read, and went through; and then an hour or two ago, just when the forms were ready, in comes old Hodges—­he’s one of the owners, you know—­and begins nosing round.  ‘What’s this?’ he cries, and reads the story; and then he goes to the managing editor.  They almost had a fight over it.  ’No paper that I am interested in shall ever print a story like that!’ says Hodges; and the managing editor threatens to resign, but he can’t budge him.  The first thing I knew of it was when I got this copy; and the paper had already gone to press.”

“What do you suppose was the reason for it?” asked Montague, in wonder.

“Reason?” echoed Bates.  “The reason is Hodges; he’s a crook.  ’If we publish that story,’ he said,’the directors of the bank will never meet, and we’ll bear the onus of having wrecked the Gotham Trust Company.’  But that’s all a bluff, and he knew it; we could prove that that conference took place, if it ever came to a fight.”

“You were quite safe, it seems to me,” said Montague.

“Safe?” echoed Bates.  “We had the greatest scoop that a newspaper ever had in this country—­if only the Express were a newspaper.  But Hodges isn’t publishing the news, you see; he’s serving his masters, whoever they are.  I knew that it meant trouble when he bought into the Express.  He used to be managing editor of the Gazette, you know; and he made his fortune selling the policy of that paper—­its financial news is edited to this very hour in the offices of Wyman’s bankers, and I can prove it to anybody who wants me to.  That’s the sort of proposition a man’s up against; and what’s the use of gathering the news?”

And Bates rose up with an oath, kicking away the chair behind him.  “Come on,” he said; “let’s get out of here.  I don’t know that I’ll ever come back.”