“Did they?” said Kent.

“It looks pretty much that way, doesn’t it?  Duvall is the scapegoat, and the only one.  About day after to-morrow Bucks’ organ, the Tribune, will come out with an ‘inspired’ editorial whitewashing the entire capitol outfit.  It will show how Rumford’s application for the charter was refused, and how a truly good and beneficent state government has been hoodwinked and betrayed by one of its most trusted supporters.”

Kent threw off his street coat and went to get his dressing-gown from the wardrobe in the bedroom.  When he came back he said:  “Hildreth, you have taken me at my word thus far, and you haven’t had occasion to call me either a knave or a fool.  Do it a little longer and I’ll put you in the way of touching off a set-piece of pyrotechnics that will double discount this mild little snap-cracker of the Belmount business.”

“Can’t you do it now?”

“No; the time isn’t ripe yet.  We must let the Tribune’s coat of whitewash dry in first.”

Hildreth wriggled in his chair.

“Kent, if I thought it would do any good, I’d cuc-curse you out; I would for a fact.  You are too blamed close-mouthed for any ordinary newspaper use.”

But Kent only laughed at him.  Now that the strain was in some measure relaxed he could stand any amount of abuse from so good a friend as the night editor.

“Turn on the hot water if you want to, and if it will relieve the pressure.  I know about how you feel; and I’d be as sore as you are if I didn’t know that I am going to make it up to you a little later on.  But about this oil blaze and to-morrow’s—­or to-day’s—­issue of the Argus.  I hope you haven’t said too much.”

“I haven’t sus-said anything.  The stuff trickled in by Associated wire at the last minute, and we had to cut and slash for space and run it pretty much as it came—­the bare story.”

“All right; that’s better.  Now suppose you hint darkly that only half of the truth has come out; that more—­and more startling—­developments may be safely predicted in the immediate hence.  Hit it up hard toward the capitol, and don’t be afraid of libeling anybody.”

Hildreth’s eyes narrowed.

“Say, Kent; you have grown a lot in these last few weeks:  what is your diet?”

“Hard work—­and a determination to make my brag good.”

“To down the ring, you mean?”

“Yes; to down the ring.”

“Are you any nearer to it than you were when you began?”

“A good many parasangs.”

“By Jove!  I more than half believe you’ve got hold of something ded-definite at last!”

“I have, indeed.  Hildreth, I have evidence—­printable evidence—­enough to dig a dozen political graves, one of them big enough to hold Jasper G. Bucks’ six-feet-two.”

“Let me see it!” said the night editor, eagerly; but Kent laughed and pushed him toward the door.