Like a flash the recollection of his encounter with Reade at the very door of the managing editor’s room, the latter’s strange and defiant manner, and the unaccountable publishing by the Despatch of a rival offer, came into Billy’s mind. He was about to mention Reade’s name when he checked himself.
What proof had he?
Then, too, he saw that Stowe’s mind was made up. He did not wish to appear in the position of trying to throw the blame on a man whom he realized the managing editor would not believe could by any possibility have any knowledge of the Planet’s plans.
“I am waiting for your answer,” came the cold, incisive voice again.
“I can think of none, sir,” rejoined the young reporter with a feeling that he had put the rope about his neck with a vengeance now.
“Hum! In that case, by a process of elimination, we have only one person who could have done it, and that——” He paused. “I hate to have to say it, Barnes, but it looks bad for you.”
“Great Heavens, Mr. Stowe!” gasped Billy, who, while he had seen what the managing editor was leading up to, was struck by a rude shock of surprise at the actual placing into words of the accusation, “do you mean to say you think that I would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know what to think, Barnes,” was the discouraging answer. “I am more sorry than I can say to have had to speak as I have. However, until you can clear yourself of the cloud of a suspicion that must rest on you because of this affair we shall have to part company.”
Billy went white.
His superior then really believed him guilty of the worst crime a newspaper man can commit—a breach of faith to his paper.