Enderby’s jaw dropped. “Then it’s still at the Graeme house,” he cried, beating on the floor with his free hand. “Take me back there!” “Oh, we’ll take you,” said Warren grimly. Close-packed among them in a cab, they drove him back to Carteret Street. Colonel Ridgway Graeme was at home and greeted them courteously. “You’ve found Livius,” he said, with relief. “I had begun to fear for him.” “Colonel Graeme,” began Average Jones, “you have—” “What! Speech!” cried the old gentleman. “And you a mute! What does this mean?” “Never mind him,” broke in Enderby Livius. “There’s something more important.” But the colonel had shrunk back. “English from you, Livius!” he cried, setting his hand to his brow. “All will be explained in time, Colonel,” Warren assured him. “Meanwhile, you have a document of the utmost importance and value. Do you remember buying one of the Percival volumes at the Barclay auction?” The collector drew his brows down in an effort to remember. “An octavo, in fairly good condition?” he asked. “Yes, yes!” cried Enderby eagerly. “Where is it? What did you do with it?” “It was in Latin—very false Latin.” The four men leaned forward, breathless. “Oh, I remember. It slipped from my pocket and fell into the river as I was crossing the ferry to Jersey.” There was a dead, flat, stricken silence. Then Average Jones turned hollow eyes upon Warren. “Professor,” he said, with a rueful attempt at a smile, “what’s the past participle, passive, plural, of the Latin verb, ‘to sting’?” CHAPTER X. THE ONE BEST BET “Morrison has jammed the Personal Liberty bill through,” said Waldemar, scrawling a head on his completed editorial, with one eye on the clock, which pointed to midnight. “That was to be expected, wasn’t it?” asked Average Jones. “Oh, yes,” replied the editor-owner of the _Universal_ in his heavy bass. “And now the governor announces he will veto it.” “Thereby bringing the whole power of the gambling ring down on him like an avalanche.” “Naturally. Morrison has declared open war against ‘Pharisee Phil,’ as he calls Governor Arthur. Says he’ll pass the bill over his veto. In his heart he knows he can’t do it. Still, he’s a hard fighter.” Average Jones tipped his chair back against the wall of the editorial sanctum. “What do you suppose,” he inquired with an air of philosophic speculation, “that the devil will do with Carroll Morrison’s soul when he gets it? Deodorize it?” “Harsh words, young sir! Harsh words and treasonable against one of our leading citizens; multimillionaire philanthropist, social leader, director of banks, insurance companies and railroads, and emperor of the race-track, the sport of kings.”