For a brief interval the two men stood glaring at each other. It was Flomerfelt who, at the last, lowered his eyes. "Well, have it so, Flomerfelt," Wilkinson was speaking now, "we won't quarrel. Perhaps we do belong together--at any rate, you get pay enough...." "No, not enough," Flomerfelt mused half-aloud, for his thoughts had travelled through the closed door, into the hall without, had climbed up the stairs and were centred on Leslie Wilkinson in the room above. Wilkinson resumed his seat. "What are we going to do with Ilingsworth," he began. "That's the first proposition. You say to----" "Jug him," finished Flomerfelt. "Take the offensive. Make the first move." Wilkinson snorted. "That's where your 'prentice hand shows up, just as I knew it would. I'm going to let him go." Flomerfelt started. "What!" he ejaculated. Wilkinson grinned. Slowly he gathered together the newspapers littering his desk and deposited them in the waste-basket. Then he turned to Flomerfelt. "Now, you whippersnapper of an understudy," he paused a moment, "the reason I'm going to let him go, _is because I'm going to lay the blame of this whole thing on Giles Ilingsworth_. See?" Flomerfelt looked at the extras, at his chief, at the walls, the hangings--now still as death they were--and at the floor. Then he rose and paced the floor with that noiseless tread of his. Finally he stopped, and swinging his lithe body about, once more faced his chief. "By George, Wilkinson, you're great!" he exclaimed. "Ilingsworth a scapegoat! How did you ever think of it?" "_When_ did I think of it would be more to the purpose," returned his chief, not without pride. "I thought of it as I think of everything--in a flash--while you were trying to induce me to surrender him. Somebody's got to bear the brunt of this--he's the new blood that's wrecked us--he and his crowd, so why not he, eh? Why not?" Flomerfelt's thin lips widened into a diabolical grin. "How are you going to do it, Wilkinson?" His chief did not reply immediately. His hesitation made the other's grin widen all the more. "I'll have to work that out, Flomerfelt," presently he said, "but I'll do it. He might as well smart as anyone else. Besides, what will it amount to, anyway? An investigation--censure--a few bribes--and---- The rest of us can go to Europe and enjoy ourselves until it's blown over." "If it ever blows over," put in Flomerfelt. Then he stretched out his arm and laid his long, lean fingers on the sleeve of Wilkinson's coat. "Peter V.," he said in a low voice, "I'll give you credit in this, as well as in other things; but let me tell you something: while you've been mumbling here, I've worked your idea out--sketched in the details." "You don't say!" cried Wilkinson. "Good boy! Well?" And he looked at him questioningly. But Flomerfelt shook his head.