As befitted the owner of a pliable daily, Mr. Wymett was thoroughly conversant with the law bearing upon publications. It seemed unpleasantly probable to him that his ill-fated letter laid him open to indictment on any one of three counts. That smiling Mart Embree would push for criminal action, he had little doubt. The Guardian unhappily had nothing on the Senator; he could n’t be blackmailed. If the financial and political powers in control would stand by, The Guardian could weather the storm, albeit severely battered in reputation. But would they? Could they afford to in view of the definite nature of the exposure? Mr. Wymett supped gloomily and alone with this question and afterward took it into his study with him for the evening’s speculation. His long, grave, immobile, ascetic face grew longer, graver, more immobile, and more ascetic as the facts in their bearing upon him massed a formidable array of cons against a scraggly and wavering handful of pros. Upon him thus absorbed, and steadily absorbing (for the bottle was still his counselor), intruded young Robson of The Record. “Nothing to say for publication,” snapped Wymett, professionally shocked at the idea of his rival’s making capital of his misfortunes. “We’re not printing anything,” pleasantly replied his visitor. “What do you want, then?” “Will you sell The Guardian?” “To whom?” “To me.” Mr. Wymett leaned back from his desk and studied his caller from beneath heavy eyelids. His posture lent to his face a furtively benevolent look as of one meditating the performance of a good deed on the sly. Such was not his precise intent, as regarded young Robson. He didn’t trust young Robson. He did n’t trust The Record. For that matter he was not in a mood to trust anybody or anything in a calumnious world. He opened a small cabinet at his elbow which he had hastily closed upon young Robson’s entrance. “May I offer you a drink?” he said. “No; thank you.” “Good! Nothing mixes so badly with printer’s ink,” approved the older man patronizingly. “I seldom touch it, otherwise than as a digestant.” He poured himself a liberal allowance and set the glass on his desk. “Whom do you represent?” “Myself.” Mr. Wymett smiled tolerantly. “Of course. But whose capital?” “My own.” “A secret deal, eh? What reason have you to suppose that the paper is for sale?” “I was in the Senate.” Thus unpleasantly recalled to his thorny situation, Mr. Wymett gulped down his whiskey and hastily poured another. “A bare-faced forgery,” he asserted with an effect of judicial severity; “as will be proved at the proper time.” “Let us assume it to be, for the sake of courtesy. It got a quick endorsement,” replied young Robson smoothly. Mr. Wymett hastily set down the re-filled glass which he was voluptuously raising, and rather wished that he had n’t taken that other one. Young Robson was not, perhaps, as young as his years. “Endorsement?” he inquired.