“Who the hell cares about that?”

“A lot of people, Harry. Blind people. The people who look after them. The people who really collect money for them.” Ryan glanced up swiftly. “And you yourself – you care.”

Harry Grant swallowed. “It’s still worth doing. Just to stop Mrs Bannister. We wouldn’t have much trouble proving it, either.”

Ryan shook his head again. “There’s no guarantee on that. You’ve got to remember, these Bannisters are smart. They’ll cover up – they’ll have cast-iron accounts for everything, and a lot of money in the bank, which they were just going to distribute. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to pin on to them. And look at the choice it gives us! If we win, Esther’s name will stink, all the way round the world, and millions of blind people, and their friends, will feel miserable and frustrated and swindled. If we lose, we’ll never sell another copy of this newspaper …” He waited, watching Harry Grant’s face. “The whole balance of things is weighted against us, Harry. We’re bound to spoil more than we heal, much more.”

“We’d stop her, anyway.”

“We might – and destroy every good thing about Esther in the process … It’s no good, Harry,” Ryan said again. “We’ve got to kill it.”

There was a long pause.

“If only I hadn’t left her alone,” said Harry.

“I’m darned sorry,” said Ryan. “About everything … It was a wonderful story, too.”

The typed sheets were on one side of Ryan’s desk. On the other was the spike – bare now, ready for the day’s rejects – the spike with NO printed on its base.

“Everything was wonderful,” said Harry vaguely. He looked at Ryan. He wanted to talk for a few moments more. “Everything came right, last night. We – she was – we would have got married. It was as sure as that. I thought it would be all right to leave her.”

“I’m darned sorry,” repeated Ryan.

“But I left my handkerchief in the apartment. In Esther’s room. Mrs Bannister found it. She must have guessed what had happened.”

Ryan shook his head again, this time in shared regret. But already his eyes were wandering – towards the telephone, the basket full of copy, the wire clips with the photographs. He was waiting to become the news editor once more, with the current deadline twelve hours ahead.

“She must have guessed,” said Harry. He had one other thing to do, and he could only do it while he was talking. “She knew it was the finish, for her,” he went on, reaching out for the spike with NO on the base, “and she took the only way out … Now she’s in the clear again.” He held the spike balanced in his hand for a moment, and then advanced it. “Sorry about the story,” he said. “I really tried all I could, with that one.” He put the spike down again, directly in front of Ryan, close alongside the typed pages. “But all the best stories–”