Not knowing what to say, Seth remained silent. The proprietor continued: “When this leader left my hands this morning, it bolted the ticket, out and out. There was no mistake about it. It was squarefooted. As it is now, it’s neither fish, flesh nor fowl. It condemns the Convention and the frauds, but it practically says that the result must be accepted. The worst of it is I didn’t see the paper until the edition had been worked off. The alterations in the proof here, which make all the difference between white and black, are in Samboye’s hand. Did he say anything to you about it? Was anybody up in the editorial room to see him?” “No one came up to see him; he said nothing to me except that we were on the fence. That disgusted me so much that I asked nothing further.” “Did he say that when he came up from here--or later, after he had gone over the proof?” “He said it when--or no, hold on--he received a dispatch just before;” and Seth recounted the episode of the telegram. Mr. Workman was much impressed with this. He covered his blotter thick with scrolls and geometrical figures while he pondered it. At last he spoke. “You don’t know where the telegram came from?--no, of course not. I think I know about where, and I think I can guess about what it said. It said that, in this matter of bolting tickets, one day’s delay might make an immense amount of difference, and that it would be worth his while to keep the _Chronicle_ non-committal in its first issue by hook or by crook. Take my word for it, that is what it said in substance. The fellows who sent it were scared about the _Chronicle_. They knew what an effect its course would have on the weeklies, most of which go to press to-morrow. They couldn’t spend money better than in having us accept the ticket, and not only commit ourselves but the country editors--and _they’ve bought Samboye!_” There was a long silence. The two men looked at each other. Finally Workman said: “The worst feature of it is, there is no way of getting at the thing--of proving it. I suppose I could get an order compelling the Company to produce the telegram, but I am not sure, and then it would be a big scandal and a big expense.” He lapsed into pencil work again and sighed. “But is Samboye that kind of man?” asked Seth. “Oh yes, I have no illusions on that score. I very nearly caught him in a thing of this sort--on a smaller scale, of course--three years ago.” “But why then----”