“Frankly, I don’t like your attitude, Mr. Robson.” “Consider your own.” Jeremy’s eyes hardened. “You’re fiddling and faddling within a step of the penitentiary. They’ll get you if you try to hang to The Guardian. Public sentiment will demand it. Do you know that the Bellair papers are carrying the story?” “Damn ’em!” said Mr. Wymett and visited the decanter again. “So, you see how far it’s gone. Now, if it is known that you’re out of the paper, they’ll let up on you, won’t they? That looks to me like the politics of it.” “Probably,” agreed Mr. Wymett. “Well, what do you say?” “Let me talk to my lawyer.” The Honorable Selden Dana was summoned, and came after a short delay, in the course of which Mr. Wymett had two more whiskies to his own good luck, for the price offered was better than he could have reasonably hoped. On Judge Dana’s arrival he and Mr. Wymett retired for a conference. It was brief. Three words comprised the lawyer’s advice: “Sell and git!” “You’ve bought, Mr. Robson,” he said, returning with his client for a drink, and departed thoughtfully, leaving the old and the new owner of The Guardian with duly signed preliminary agreements in their pockets. Jeremy was to take over control the first of the succeeding month. “So you won’t say where the money comes from?” said the now relaxed and smiling Mr. Wymett. “For publication?” “Oh, no. To satisfy personal curiosity.” “For that I would n’t. Public curiosity, though; that’s different. I suppose people will be interested to know who’s back of the paper.” “Certainly.” “Then I’ll look to you to tell them. In to-morrow’s Guardian. These are the facts, which you can verify by wire if you wish.” And he related to the surprised Mr. Wymett the main circumstances of the Greer will. “When that is published,” he concluded, “people will understand that it’s my own money, that The Guardian is my own paper, and that there are no strings on it or me.” Mr. Wymett had another drink--“just one more”--to the success of The Guardian under its new management, and became expansive for once in his cautious life. “You’ve bought into a sporting proposition, young man.” The retiring editor rested his lined and puckered face on his hand, and regarded his vis-à-vis thoughtfully. “A sporting proposition. Oh, God; I’m glad to be out of it--and sorry! It’s a hell of a life, and I ‘ve loved it. But in the end it gets you. Like a drug.” He sat staring in a brief silence at the young, sanguine, keen face before him; a sad, humorous-eyed, ageing, slovenly, dishonest, tolerant philosopher.