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Literary composition had never been Roland’s forte. He sat and stared at the white paper and chewed the pencil which should have been marring its whiteness with stinging paragraphs. No sort of idea came to him.

His brow grew damp. What sort of people–except book-makers–did things you could write scandal about? As far as he could ascertain, nobody.

He picked up the morning paper. The name Windlebird [*] caught his eye. A kind of pleasant melancholy came over him as he read the paragraph. How long ago it seemed since he had met that genial financier. The paragraph was not particularly interesting. It gave a brief account of some large deal which Mr. Windlebird was negotiating. Roland did not understand a word of it, but it gave him an idea.

[*] He is a character in the Second Episode, a fraudulent financier.

Mr. Windlebird’s financial standing, he knew, was above suspicion. Mr. Windlebird had made that clear to him during his visit. There could be no possibility of offending Mr. Windlebird by a paragraph or two about the manners and customs of financiers. Phrases which his kindly host had used during his visit came back to him, and with them inspiration.

Within five minutes he had compiled the following

WE JUST WANT TO KNOW, YOU KNOW

WHO is the eminent financier at present engaged upon one of his
biggest deals?

WHETHER the public would not be well-advised to look a little
closer into it before investing their money?

IF it is not a fact that this gentleman has bought a first-class
ticket to the Argentine in case of accidents?

WHETHER he may not have to use it at any moment?

After that it was easy. Ideas came with a rush. By the end of an hour he had completed a Scandal Page of which Mr. Petheram himself might have been proud, without a suggestion of slipping it into Percy. He felt that he could go to Mr. Pook, and say, “Percy, on your honor as a British book-maker, have I slipped it into you in any way whatsoever?” And Mr. Pook would be compelled to reply, “You have not.”

Miss March read the proofs of the page, and sniffed. But Miss March’s blood was up, and she would have sniffed at anything not directly hostile to Mr. Pook.

* * * * *

A week later Roland sat in the office of ‘Squibs,’ reading a letter. It had been sent from No. 18-A Bream’s Buildings, E.C., but, from Roland’s point of view, it might have come direct from heaven; for its contents, signed by Harrison, Harrison, Harrison & Harrison, Solicitors, were to the effect that a client of theirs had instructed them to approach him with a view to purchasing the paper. He would not find their client disposed to haggle over terms, so, hoped Messrs. Harrison, Harrison, Harrison & Harrison, in the event of Roland being willing to sell, they could speedily bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion.

Any conclusion which had left him free of ‘Squibs’ without actual pecuniary loss would have been satisfactory to Roland. He had conceived a loathing for his property which not even its steadily increasing sales could mitigate. He was around at Messrs. Harrison’s office as soon as a swift taxi could take him there. The lawyers were for spinning the thing out with guarded remarks and cautious preambles, but Roland’s methods of doing business were always rapid.

“This chap,” he said, “this fellow who wants to buy ‘Squibs,’ what’ll he give?”

“That,” began one of the Harrisons ponderously, “would, of course, largely depend—-“

“I’ll take five thousand. Lock, stock, and barrel, including the present staff, an even five thousand. How’s that?”

“Five thousand is a large—-“

“Take it or leave it.”

“My dear sir, you hold a pistol to our heads. However, I think that our client might consent to the sum you mention.”

“Good. Well, directly I get his check, the thing’s his. By the way, who is your client?”

Mr. Harrison coughed.

“His name,” he said, “will be familiar to you. He is the eminent financier, Mr. Geoffrey Windlebird.”