“McQuaid’s spilled the beans!” he cried. “Look at this, sir! He published the story of the strike—the Huntington ranch story, sir!”
Quintell glared at his secretary in unbelief; then his big body stiffened, and his face purpled with rage. He tore the paper from the other’s grasp and skimmed through the account with flaming eyes. A frightful oath burst from him.
“Damn him! The bonehead! Another traitor!” he sputtered savagely. “I’ll teach the fool a lesson. He’ll pay for this——” He snatched the receiver off the telephone and called up the Searchlight editorial rooms. A man’s voice answered presently.
“Hello! This you, McQuaid?”
“Mr. McQuaid is no longer here. Is there anything I can do——”
“What do you mean—no longer there? Say, who is this talking? I said, McQuaid—the editor. Tell him Quintell wants him.”
“I got you the first time, friend,” was the quiet reply. “Mr. McQuaid sold out this morning. The Searchlight is under new management.”
Quintell took a slow breath. His rage cooled. “This is rather unexpected news. I wasn’t prepared for it. May I ask who bought him out?”
“Los Angeles people. We are reorganizing the paper, making a change in policy, and all that sort of thing.”
“I see,” said Quintell and added: “Is there any truth to that Boyd and Liggs gold-strike story? I see you’ve featured it.”