"But that wasn't the serious part of the thing--not by a mile-walk," continued Peter, the shine of victory in his honest eyes. "Am I still in the road? Sing out if you see me taking to the woods, will you? The more I think of what you and I have missed by a shave, the more I'm likely to feel sick in the stomach. You know those rascals had already begun asking for orders all over the country--they were so sure they'd have a hot story to send out. Not only that, but a lot of papers wired for it without being asked. It looked as if every newspaper office in America that had got a glimpse at the _Daily_ this morning instantly got dead stuck on that story. I stood at the telegraph desk and watched the accursed things come in, like this: '500 words story involving Stanhope, Rochester _Tribune_.' 'No. 3.--' That was the number of our story on the query list.--'No. 3.--Full details, Chicago _Ledger_.' 'No. 3--1000 words, Philadelphia _Journal_.' And so on and on. It looked uncanny, I tell you--all those far-away people calling for information about our affairs just like old friends. Will you kindly let your mind play about that a minute, Laurence? Will you kindly think of a situation like that with Ryan and Coligny Smith handling it as their little whimseys dictated?" "I'd rather not. You wired those papers that the story was a canard and all that, I suppose?" "No!" roared Peter, "I did something a whole lot better than that. I had one of the men write a hot political story about the _Gazette_ and the change of management and the sudden rise of Reform. There's _news_ in that, don't you see?--and it was the Stanhope-Varney story, too--the real one. When I left the office, they were selling it like hot cakes, all over the country--all over the world--" "Hold on!" said Varney, sharply. "Here's Hammerton, I think--bringing in a whole lot better story than yours!" The road here was straight as a string stretched tight. Far down it, they saw a single small light, dancing towards them a foot or two above the ground. Peter threw off his clutch, clapped on his brakes and stopped short. Varney slid out of the seat and stood waiting in the black inkiness beside the unlighted car. In the sudden stillness they could hear the rattle of the bicycle chain and even the crunch of the hard-blown tires, spinning rapidly over the road. Now the light was perhaps a hundred yards away. "Blow!" hispered Varney. The horn's honk cut the silent air hoarsely. Instantly the speed of the oncoming light was checked. It advanced steadily, but much more slowly, as though the rider sensed that his road might be blocked, but could not yet determine where the hidden obstacle might be. "Hello!" called a lusty young voice suddenly. "Who's there?"