“And here’s Bendig,” said the other, as the sporting editor entered. “Any such horse as ‘The Pharisee,’ Bendig?”
“No, sir. I suppose you mean that Noble and Gale ad. I saw it in proof. Some of Nick Karboe’s funny work, I expect.”
“Nick Karboe; N. K.,” murmured Average Jones, laying a hand on the abandoned field glass. “Who is this man Karboe, Mr. Bendig?”
“Junior partner of Noble and Gale. He puts out their advertising.”
“Any connection whatever with Mr. Carroll Morrison?”
“Why, yes. Before he went to pieces he used to be Mr. Morrison’s confidential man, and lately he’s been doing some lobbying for the association. I understood he’d quit it again.”
“Quit what?” asked Waldemar. “Drink?”
“Worse. The white stuff. Coke.”
Average Jones whistled softly. “That explains it all,” he said. “A cocaine fiend on a debauch becomes a mental and moral imbecile. It would be perfectly in character that he should boast of a projected crime.”
“Very well,” said Waldemar, after the sporting editor had left, “but you don’t really connect Morrison with this?”