“Why, we’re trying to verify the report. I’d say it looks the goods.”
Quintell chuckled, but his eyes were smoldering venomously. “Who started the rumor—got any idea?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quintell, but we do not divulge our sources of information,” said the other.
“Oh, certainly—certainly. Beg pardon. I should have known better. I assume you’re the new editor?”
“Yes—Babcock. I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Quintell, and hope to have the pleasure of meeting you——”
“The pleasure will be mutual, Mr. Babcock,” said Quintell significantly, as he hung up.
For some moments the boss of Geerusalem sat motionless, his gaze riveted on that prominently displayed first-page story which he and his confederates had guarded so carefully for weeks past against circulation, while they bided their time until Lemuel Huntington should return to the solitude of his ranch and, under the influence of their power, be forced to part with his holdings. Quintell knew positively that whoever tipped the story off to the Searchlight’s new management was well aware that the strike was on Huntington’s land. An attempt to verify the rumor would result, Quintell was certain, in the location of the bonanza and all the details appearing, possibly in the very next issue of this paper over which he and his gang had, with mysterious suddenness, lost all control. Huntington would see the account, public attention would be focused on the Huntington ranch, and Quintell & Co. would have to pay a fancy price if they hoped to acquire the property.
Following a short interval of black reflection, Quintell sprang out of his chair and stormed about his office. Harrison stood, toying nervously with a pencil, watching his master.
“McQuaid sold us out—the rat!” roared the broker. “He had the details. He got his price and crossed us, the cur! Jumped out of camp before we could——”
“He may not have, sir,” interrupted the secretary suavely. “McQuaid never impressed me as being that type.”