“Joke nothing! We got a buyer. He’s in my office.”
“Is he violent?”
“Boss, it’s A. M. Wymett.”
Jeremy straightened in his chair. “Wymett! What’s he doing here?”
“Wearing lovely clothes and looking prosperous. He is crazy, Boss. He wants to get back into the game.” Two minutes later, the ex-proprietor of The Guardian was confirming this latter statement.
“Yes,” he said. “The crave is in my blood. It’s worse than drink. I’ve quit drink. But not the other.”
“You’ve been back in it?”
“Mining journal in California. I made a little money at it. But there’s no life in that. You’re in a back-water. I want to get into the main current again.”
“What made you suppose The Guardian was for sale?” Wymett lifted the heavy brows above his weary, cynical eyes, as if with an effort. “Aren’t you going into the service?”
“I may,” said Jeremy shortly.