"I'll show 'em," he muttered darkly to himself, "I'll show 'em they can't pull that cave-man stuff around my home circle!"
And in half an hour's time he had an ex-pool-roomer from a private detective agency busily shadowing Gunboat Dorgan, and another quiet-moving agent gathering what data he could as to the physical disabilities of Raoul Uhlan, and an expeditious clerk from the outer office confirming the address and movements of a certain Miss Ruby Reamer. Then, having started these wheels into motion, he hurriedly looked up a point or two of law, consulted his watch, and called up Louis Lipsett, of The Star, at the Press Club.
"Louis," he said over the wire, "I've got a great news story for you."
"Good!" promptly announced the other.
"Yes, it's so good, in fact, that you've got to come and help me kill it in the bud."
"Then let me add that what you want isn't a reporter, but an undertaker," retorted the unfeeling young White Hope of his over-saffroned daily.
