Rolling in its plunge, the car fell over and over into the ravine below, leaving a trail of wreckage as it
went. It smashed into a large tree, and its course ended there.
In ten brief seconds, the speeding automobile had become a battered hulk, and in the mass of twisted
metal and broken glass lay the dead body of Berchik.
CHAPTER II. ONE HOUR TO LIVE
THE young reporter glanced nervously at his wrist watch as he sat by the window in the waiting room.
Nearly four o'clock. He had been waiting half an hour.
He looked out the window and studied the myriad buildings that lay below. Manhattan was an amazing
spectacle when viewed from the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building; but his eyes scarcely saw the
scene.
He was anxiously waiting his interview with Jonathan Graham, the millionaire importer.
The reporter started suddenly as a quiet, somber man approached and spoke to him.
'I am Mr. Berger,' explained the man. 'I am Mr. Graham's secretary. What can I do for you?'
The reporter arose and fumbled nervously with his hat.
'Stevens is my name,' he said. 'Reporter on the Morning Sphere. I'd like a private interview with Mr.
Graham.'
'He is very busy,' replied the secretary smoothly. 'I usually take care of these matters for him.'
'I must see him personally.'
The secretary shrugged his shoulders.
'I think that will be impossible,' he told the reporter. 'It is late in the afternoon. Mr. Graham has urgent
matters on his mind.'
'I made the appointment by phone this morning,' objected Stevens.
'I understand that well,' answered Berger. 'But I attend to all matters such as newspaper interviews. You
will have to talk with me.'
The door of the inner office opened, and a stout, gray-haired man entered the waiting room. He spoke to
a stenographer seated at a desk; then he turned to go back into his office.
The reporter saw him and recognized him.
'Mr. Graham!' he exclaimed, darting away from the secretary. 'I am from the Sphere, Mr. Graham. May
I talk with you for a few minutes?'
The millionaire looked disapprovingly at Stevens. Then he pointed to his secretary.
'Mr. Berger will take care of you,' he said.
'But this is a personal interview, Mr. Graham,' pleaded the reporter. 'I won't be long, sir. Just a few
minutes. I hate to bother you, sir. But it means a lot to me -'
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
