“Oh, pshaw!” said he. “The office would soon fix that up. The police never bother a newspaper man.”
There was a pause. “Mr. Montague,” said Bates, earnestly, “I know this is a tough proposition—but think what it means. We get word about this conference. Waterman is here—and Duval—think of that! Dan Waterman and the Oil Trust getting together! The managing editor sent for me himself, and he said, 'Bates, get that story.' And what am I to do? There's about as much chance of my finding out what goes on in that conference—”
He stopped. “Think of what it may mean, Mr. Montague,” he cried. “They will decide on to-morrow's moves! It may turn the stock market upside down. Think of what you could do with the information!”
“No,” said Montague, shaking his head; “don't go at me that way.”
Bates was gazing at him. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “but then maybe you have interests of your own; or your friends—surely this situation—”
“No, not that either,” said Montague, smiling; and Bates broke into a laugh.
“Well, then,” he said, “just for the sport of it! Just to fool them!”
“That's more like it,” said Montague.
“Of course, it's your room,” said Bates. “You can stop us, if you insist. But you needn't stay if you don't want to. We'll take all the risk; and you may be sure that if we were caught, the hotel would suppress it. You can trust me to clear your name—”
“I'll stay,” said Montague. “I'll see it through.”