“Vide the Planet newspaper.” A soft laugh floated up from the ground.
“Just so!” The owner of the Planet newspaper folded his arms with a fine gesture. “We take credit to ourselves for revealing Garlandism in its true colors.”
“And for drawing a dividend from your soap-and-water-using public, while your string of tag, rag and bobtail prints coax dividends from the millions who have no use for soap and water but can always afford a penny, a couple of cents, a few lira or half a mark as the case may be to have their cupidity pleasantly tickled.”
The Colossus had heard the taunt so often that he had learned to smile at it. “You do the Universal Press less than justice,” he said, with a touch of proprietorial complacency.
“No doubt!” The answering smile was a little dour. “But that is between you—and, shall we say?—the Council of Seven.”
In spite of an iron will, Saul Hartz started at the rather sinister deliberation of the words. “For the present, if you don’t mind, let us keep to Garland.” The attempt at rebuke was not altogether successful.
“Wiser, no doubt.” Wygram, politely nonchalant, pointed to the silver box. The visitor warily took a second cigarette. “Garland was the only one of his kind.” Wygram’s voice grew curiously soft. “And his case, looking at it ‘in the round,’ opened a door in my experience.”
“That I can readily believe.” Saul Hartz had no afterthought. “From the details the Office has been able to glean, the full story of Garland’s death might be the biggest ‘scoop’ of modern times.”
XVIII
FOR a little, while the two men smoked, there was silence. They did not quite set each other’s genius, it was clear. Between them was a subtle antagonism, which yet on both sides did not deny a claim to respect. Saul Hartz, at any rate, had now modified considerably his first estimate of “the pseudo-oriental.”