“Not interested in mathematics?” asked Average Jones solicitously. “Very well, I’ll elucidate informally. Given a bullet hole in a telegraph pole at a certain distance, a bullet scar on an iron girder at a certain lesser distance, and the length of a block from here to Harrison Avenue—which I paced off while you were skillfully ordering luncheon, Waldemar—and an easy triangulation brings us direct to this room and to two fugitive gentlemen with whom I mention the hypothesis with all deference, Mr. Morrison, you are probably acquainted.”
“And who may they have been?” retorted Morrison contemptuously.
“I don’t know,” said Average Jones.
“Then, sir,” retorted the racing king, “your hypothesis is as impudent as your company is intolerable. Have you anything further to say to me?”
“Yes. It would greatly please Mr. Waldemar to publish in to-morrow’s paper an authorized statement from you to the effect that the Personal Liberty bill will be withdrawn permanently.”
“Mr. Waldemar may go to the devil. I have endured all the hectoring I propose to. Men in my position are targets for muckrakers and blackmailers—”
“Wait a moment,” Waldemar’s heavy voice broke in. “You speak of men in your position. Do you understand just what position you are in at present?”
Morrison rose. “Governor Arthur,” he said with with stony dignity, “I bid you good evening.”
Waldemar set his bulky back against the door. The lips drew back from Morrison’s strong teeth with the snarl of an animal in the fury and terror of approaching peril.
“Do you know Nick Karboe?”