Then did his Grace’s secretary gently, evenly and without embroidery tell him the story of what John K. Petre had done to his competitor, the Chicago Judge, when the Chicago Judge had opened its mouth too wide. After that he told another story of what John K. Petre had done to the man on the Riviera who had let the newspapers know the name of his guest. And the Duke in his heart, though he knew very well that the Messenger was something bigger than the Chicago Judge, and that he counted more in what the modern world reveres, and had more power over it than any host upon the Riviera, yet felt a certain chill in his breast, and there tolled in it the knell of that sentence which everybody used when John K. was on the carpet, “You can’t fight fifty million pounds.”
“It’s a scoop,” he said bitterly.
The secretary shook his head: “It’s ruin and damnation!” Then he explained himself. “Where’s the scoop? He wouldn’t give an interview; and just to say he’s in London—what’s the good of that?”
“Lord, man!” shouted the Duke suddenly, “doesn’t he ever want a write up?”
“I think he manages to do without them,” said the secretary drily.
The cigar was finished and the Duke threw it away. He handed his coat to the secretary without true courtesy, and the secretary, who knew exactly how far to go, held it for him while he put it on.
“The man’s mad,” said the Duke, as he struggled into the coat.
“They all say that,” said the secretary, pulling the coat collar down and valeting his master as in duty bound.
“They’re ruddy well right,” said the Duke, and he stamped out to his private lift.