Again Kent acquiesced, making no mention of sundry journeys he had made for the sole purpose of enlisting other editors, or of the open house Miss Van Brock was keeping for out-of-town newspaper men visiting the capital.

“Moreover, we’ve served your turn in the Trans-Western affair,” Hildreth went on.  “Public interest is on the qui vive for new developments in that.  By the way, has the capitol gang any notion of your part in all this upstirring?”

Kent smiled and handed the editor an open letter.  It was from Receiver Guilford.  The post of general counsel for the Trans-Western was vacant, and the letter was a formal tender of the office to the “Hon. David Kent.”

“H’m,” said the editor.  “I don’t understand that a little bit.”

“Why?”

“If they could get you to accept a general agency in Central Africa or New Zealand, or some other antipodean place where you’d be safely out of the way, it would be evident enough.  But here they are proposing to take you right into the heart of things.”

Kent got a match out of the editor’s desk and relighted his cigar.

“You’ve got brain-fag to-night, Hildreth.  It’s a bribe, pure and simple.  They argue that it is merely a matter of dollars and cents to me, as it would be to one of them; and they propose to retain me just as they would any other attorney whose opposition they might want to get rid of.  Don’t you see?”

“Sure.  I was thinking up the wrong spout.  Have you replied to the major?”

“Yes.  I told him that my present engagements preclude the possibility of considering his offer; much to my regret.”

“Did you say that?  You’re a cold-plucked one, Kent, and I’m coming to admire you.  But now is the time for you to begin to look out.  They have spotted you, and their attempt to buy you has failed.  I don’t know how deeply you have gone into Bucks’ tinkering with the Universal people, but if you are in the way of getting the grip you spoke of—­as this letter seems to indicate—­you want to be careful.”

Kent promised and went his way.  One of his saving graces was the ability to hold his tongue, even in a confidential talk with as good a friend as Hildreth.  As for example:  he had let the suggestion of watching the secretary of State’s office come as a new thing from the editor, whereas in fact it was one of the earliest measures he had taken.

And on that road he had traveled far, thanks to a keen wit, to Portia Van Brock’s incessant promptings, and to the help of the leaky clerk in Hendricks’ office; so far, indeed, that he had found the “stool pigeon” oil company, to which Hildreth’s hint had pointed—­a company composed, with a single exception, of men of “straw,” the exception being the man Rumford, whose conferences with the governor and the attorney-general had aroused his suspicions.

It was about this time that Hunnicott reported the sale of the Gaston lots at a rather fancy cash figure, and the money came in good play.