"That I sold the _Gazette_ at four o'clock this afternoon." For an instant the room whirled and Varney saw nothing in it but the odd eyes of Coligny Smith steadily fixing him. By the shock of that blow, he realized that, after all, he had wholly counted upon succeeding in this. From the moment when he had turned his stateroom key on unconscious Charlie Hammerton, he had recognized it as his one chance. And now he was too late. Clever Ryan, who missed nothing, doubtless suspecting that the faithless editor who had sold out once to him might now be planning to do it again to a higher bidder, had outstripped him. And the _Gazette_ to-morrow would damn him utterly. But Varney's face, as these thoughts came to him, wore a faint, non-committal smile. "That is final, I suppose?" "As death, so far as I am concerned. I leave Hunston permanently to-morrow morning." "Who was the buyer?" "There is really no reason why I should divulge his confidence that I know of; but, curses on me, I'll do it if you'll tell me this: Where is Charles Hammerton?" Varney laid his hat and stick on the table, to rid his hands of them, and faced Mr. Smith, leaning lightly against it. "I came here, Smith, to ask questions, not to answer them. On second thoughts, I withdraw my last one, for I can guess the answer. But before we proceed further, I want you to tell me this: what made you sell?" The editor pitched another cigarette-end out of the window. Again a shout from the street indicated that it had become a bone of bitter contest among the town's smokers of the _sub-rosa_ class. "Suppose I were to tell you," said Smith slowly, "that I anticipate a shakeup here which will cut the backbone out of my profits? What would you say to that?" "I suppose I should say that it was ever the custom of rats to desert a sinking ship. So that was your mainspring, was it?"