"Oh, no, that's all right. It's all fake stuff, tho the public doesn't
know it. If you stuck to real scandals you wouldn't get a par. a week.
A more moral set of blameless wasters than the blighters who constitute
modern society you never struck. But it reads all right, doesn't it? Of
course, every now and then one does hear something genuine, and then it
goes in. For instance, have you ever heard of Percy Pook, the bookie? I
have got a real ripe thing in about Percy this week, the absolute
limpid truth. It will make him sit up a bit. There, just under your
thumb."

Roland removed his thumb, and, having read the paragraph in question,
started as if he had removed it from a snake.

"But this is bound to mean a libel action!" he cried.

"Not a bit of it," said Mr. Petheram comfortably. "You don't know
Percy. I won't bore you with his life-history, but take it from me he
doesn't rush into a court of law from sheer love of it. You're safe
enough."

* * * * *

But it appeared that Mr. Pook, tho coy in the matter of cleansing his
scutcheon before a judge and jury, was not wholly without weapons of
defense and offense. Arriving at the office next day, Roland found a
scene of desolation, in the middle of which, like Marius among the
ruins of Carthage, sat Jimmy, the vacant-faced office boy. Jimmy was
reading an illustrated comic paper, and appeared undisturbed by his
surroundings.