Kitty laughed.

Just as she had pictured it.

She hustled.
"I have it!" she cried, breaking a spell of silence.
"What--St.Vitus ?" inquired Burlingame, patiently.
"No; the Morgue!" "What the dickens--!" But Kitty was no longer there to answer.
In all newspaper offices there is a department flippantly designated as the Morgue.

Obituaries on ice, as it were.

A photograph or an item concerning a great man, a celebrated, beauty or some notorious rogue; from the king calibre down to Gyp-the-Blood brand, all indexed and laid away against the instant need.