"Which way? To your office or to mine?"
"To us! They've got him now, for life! They can get him back to
Sing Sing and keep the whole cursed thing under cover!"
There was a moment's silence before the cogitating Pyott spoke again. "And you say you've got Trotter right there with you?"
"Yes, but he's acting like a madman, in the Vice-President's private room."
Again there was a moment's silence. "Then give him ink and paper—give him lots of it. Tell him I've said for him to write the story THERE. Tell him to sling himself, that I want every detail, every fact, and ten solid columns of it!"
"What are you driving at?"
"I'm driving at this: keep him busy, man! Don't you see? Keep him writing there until the thing's worked out of his system. Then I'll tame him down, later. Meanwhile, you'd better clean house up there so you can officially contradict the whole story if the yellows happen to get after you."
"But nothing can get out, I tell you, unless you PUT it out!"
"Then what are you worrying about?"
"Young Trotter says he's got to send his stuff in. He's not satisfied with the mere idea of writing it."