Again Waldemar turned to the paper. “‘One Best Bet,’” he read. “‘That the Pharisee will never finish.’ Well?” “That the Pharisee will never finish,” repeated Average Jones. “If the Pharisee is a horse, the line becomes absurd at once. How could any one know that a horse would fail to finish in a race? But if it—er—referred—er—to a man, an official known—er—as Pharisee Phil—” “Wait!” Waldemar had jumped to his feet. A thrill, increasing and pulsating through the floor beneath them, shook the building. The editor jumped for the telephone. “Composing room; quick! Give me the foreman. Hello! That you, Corrigan? Stop the presses... I don’t care if we miss every train in the country... Don’t answer back. This is Mr. Waldemar. Stop the presses!” The thrill waned and ceased. At the telephone, Waldemar continued: “Look up the Noble and Gale tip ad, page nine, column six. Kill the last line, the One Best Bet... Don’t ask me how. Chisel it out. Burn it out. Dynamite it out. But kill it. After that’s done, print.... Hello; Dan? Send the sporting editor in here in a hurry.” “Good work,” said Average Jones. “They’ll never know how near their idea of removing Governor Arthur came to being boasted of in plain print.” Waldemar took his huge head in his hands and rocked it gently. “It’s on,” he said. “And right-side-before. Yet, it tries to tell me that a man, plotting to murder the governor, advertises the fact in my paper! I’ll get a new head.” “Keep that one for a while,” advised Average Jones. “It may be better than you think. Anyway, here’s the ad. And down yonder is the dead man whom it killed when he failed to kill it. So much is real.” “And here’s Bendig,” said the other, as the sporting editor entered. “Any such horse as ‘The Pharisee,’ Bendig?” “No, sir. I suppose you mean that Noble and Gale ad. I saw it in proof. Some of Nick Karboe’s funny work, I expect.” “Nick Karboe; N. K.,” murmured Average Jones, laying a hand on the abandoned field glass. “Who is this man Karboe, Mr. Bendig?” “Junior partner of Noble and Gale. He puts out their advertising.” “Any connection whatever with Mr. Carroll Morrison?” “Why, yes. Before he went to pieces he used to be Mr. Morrison’s confidential man, and lately he’s been doing some lobbying for the association. I understood he’d quit it again.” “Quit what?” asked Waldemar. “Drink?” “Worse. The white stuff. Coke.” Average Jones whistled softly. “That explains it all,” he said. “A cocaine fiend on a debauch becomes a mental and moral imbecile. It would be perfectly in character that he should boast of a projected crime.” “Very well,” said Waldemar, after the sporting editor had left, “but you don’t really connect Morrison with this?”