“Well, what do you say?”
“Let me talk to my lawyer.”
The Honorable Selden Dana was summoned, and came after a short delay, in the course of which Mr. Wymett had two more whiskies to his own good luck, for the price offered was better than he could have reasonably hoped. On Judge Dana’s arrival he and Mr. Wymett retired for a conference. It was brief. Three words comprised the lawyer’s advice: “Sell and git!”
“You’ve bought, Mr. Robson,” he said, returning with his client for a drink, and departed thoughtfully, leaving the old and the new owner of The Guardian with duly signed preliminary agreements in their pockets. Jeremy was to take over control the first of the succeeding month.
“So you won’t say where the money comes from?” said the now relaxed and smiling Mr. Wymett.
“For publication?”
“Oh, no. To satisfy personal curiosity.”
“For that I would n’t. Public curiosity, though; that’s different. I suppose people will be interested to know who’s back of the paper.”
“Certainly.”
“Then I’ll look to you to tell them. In to-morrow’s Guardian. These are the facts, which you can verify by wire if you wish.” And he related to the surprised Mr. Wymett the main circumstances of the Greer will. “When that is published,” he concluded, “people will understand that it’s my own money, that The Guardian is my own paper, and that there are no strings on it or me.”