“Locker and Mayne have skipped out. The forgery impressed them to that extent.” “Yellow,” commented the severe Mr. Wymett. His hand crept toward the stimulant which possesses the mystic power of changing timorous yellow into fighting red--up to a point--and was retracted again before attaining the goal. The caller’s quick eye noted the movement. “They own no part of The Guardian,” added its proprietor, “and their action has nothing to do with the matter of its sale.” “No,” commented young Robson in a tone disturbingly indeterminate between confirmation and incredulity. “I’ve been offered a hundred thousand for the paper,” remarked Mr. Wymett casually. “Coal-oil Johnny must have been out this way.” “My dear young sir,” said Mr. Wymett in a tone intended to be crushing; “I am talking business. May I trouble you to do the same?” “Then The Guardian _is_ for sale.” “Everything in this world is for sale, at its price,” returned the editor-owner, thereby unconsciously voicing his philosophy of life. “I assume that the price of The Guardian has not been increased by the events of to-day.” “Assume nothing of the sort.” Young Mr. Robson leaned forward over the desk. “Shall I talk plain talk?” “If you please.” “There’ll be an indictment if you stay here.” “There will. For forgery. Against the author of that faked letter.” “Against you. Nothing can stop it.” “Did Embree promise you that?” “There’s no question of promise. I don’t even get your idea.” “Indeed! Suppose you give me credit for a gleam of intelligence. Nothing more is required to see your game. Yours and Embree’s. He wants to get his hands on a paper here. He fakes up this attack on me and The Guardian to bulldoze me into selling the paper. You are his tool. The pair of you think you can run me off my own property with an unloaded gun. Not A. M. Wymett!” “Very ingenious. But Senator Embree does n’t happen to enter into this in any way, shape, or manner.” “Then who is backing you? Is it Phipps and the brewery crowd? Or the banking trust? I don’t suppose you’ve saved the money out of your twenty-five a week from The Record.” “That’s beside the question. The money is there. Seventy thousand dollars flat.” Into Mr. Wymett’s parched-looking eyes shot a swift gleam, only to be as swiftly veiled. He lifted and slowly drank the liquor before him. He shook his head. “Not to be considered. Absurd.” “It is what I figure The Guardian to be worth; to have been worth up to two-fifteen this afternoon.” “It is worth just as much now as it was yesterday.” “Seventy thousand dollars,” pursued young Robson as if the other had not spoken. “I’d like your answer.” “Indeed! And when would you like it?” The visitor glanced at the clock. “Say, an hour.” “Come, now! You are n’t so innocent of business as to suppose that deals of this importance are put through on any such hair-trigger basis.” “Not ordinarily. This is rather special, is n’t it?” insinuated the other.