George Allan England

“ Wyatt wrote “specials” and occasional exposés and news features, not because he urgently had to, but because he liked to. A benevolent uncle's will had permitted him bachelor rooms in Trinity Court, also a very reputable-appearing roadster and a decent amount of leisure; but still, week by week, he turned out much copy. If writing is in a man's blood, what uncle's will ever shall eradicate it?
Wyatt's present objective was Newspaper Row, where he sought his good friend John Lomax, who had charge of the Boston Messenger's “bone yard.” ”

“ Long bookcases groaned under the weight of innumerable reference books from many lands. Filing cabinets exuded data. Thousands of cubby-holes overflowed with the records of men, women, events. Dust hung tenuously in the electric-lighted atmosphere, mingled with a smell of printer's ink. ”

“ Lockwood's camera shy. Odd stick! Gone to seed in the attic. A has-been. Rotten with money, though. A recluse, with only two or three friends. Singular habits. Sometimes sits up all night, reading. Lives all alone in that big barn of a house, with only a housekeeper and a maid and a chauffeur.”
“Drives, eh?”
“Oh, yes—he's quite a baby for gas.” Lomax shot smoke into the dim air. “Used to be a live-wire traveler and explorer, and Still likes to gad about.”
“Explorer, eh?” asked Wyatt. ”