"So do I," said Luke acridly. "At any rate, they didn't get it." The telephone rang as he bent beside it. He took the receiver from its hook. "Yes?" he said. "Oh, Mr. Venable? Yes, he's here—right: he's here in my office, I say. Want to talk to him?" He held up the receiver. "It's that new worker, Jarvie," he explained. "He wants to talk to you."
Rapidly as events had of late happened to Luke and the Municipal Reform League, they were happening this morning with a speed theretofore unequaled. Venable had not exchanged a dozen sentences over the telephone before he told Jarvie to wait a minute and, ringing off, faced Luke, with his cheeks gone gray.
"This—this is the worst thing yet!" he gasped.
Luke was leaning against the desk, his hands closed over its edge.
"What is?"
"This, that Jarvie says. It's—Oh!" Venable flung up his hands. "It's too much!"
Luke's grip tightened.
"Tell me what it is."
Venable crumpled into the chair before the telephone.
"A couple of the Progressives' detectives have caught Jarvie trying to buy one of Heney's lieutenants."