, a mention of Carroll
Morrison's name, and, principally, some two thousand dollars in a huge
heap."

"I don't quite see where that leads."

"No? The bills must have been mostly ones and twos. Those are a
book-maker's takings. The binocular is a racing-man's glass. Our late
friend used the language of the track. I think we'll find him on page
nine."

"Try," said Waldemar, handing him a paper still spicy with the keen odor
of printer's ink.

Swiftly the Ad-Visor's practiced eye ran over the column. It checked
at the "offer" of a notorious firm of tipsters who advertised to sell
"inside information" on the races to their patrons. As a special lure,
they were, on this day, letting the public in on a few particularly
"good things" free.

"There you are," said Average Jones, pointing out the advertisement.

To his astonishment, Waldemar noted that his friend's indicatory
finger shook a little. Normally, Average Jones was the coolest and most
controlled of men.

"Noble and Gale's form ad," he observed. "I see nothing unusual in
that."

"Yet--er--I fancy it's quite important--er--in its way."

The editor stared. "When you talk like a bored Britisher, Average," he
remarked, "there's sure to be something in the air. What is it?"

"Look at the last line."

Again Waldemar turned to the paper. "'One Best Bet,"' he read. "'That
the Pharisee will never finish.' Well?"

"That the Pharisee will never finish," repeated Average Jones. "If the
Pharisee is a horse, the line becomes absurd at once. How could any
one know that a horse would fail to finish in a race? But if
it--er--referred--er--to a man, an official known--er--as Pharisee
Phil--"

"Wait!" Waldemar had jumped to his feet. A thrill, increasing and
pulsating through the floor beneath them, shook the building. The editor
jumped for the telephone.

"Composing room; quick! Give me the foreman. Hello! That you, Corrigan?
Stop the presses... I don't care if we miss every train in the
country... Don't answer back. This is Mr. Waldemar. Stop the presses!"

The thrill waned and ceased. At the telephone, Waldemar continued: "Look
up the Noble and Gale tip ad, page nine, column six. Kill the last
line, the One Best Bet... Don't ask me how. Chisel it out. Burn it out.
Dynamite it out. But kill it. After that's done, print.... Hello; Dan?
Send the sporting editor in here in a hurry."

"Good work," said Average Jones. "They'll never know how near their idea
of removin