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Wilkinson resumed his seat.

"What are we going to do with Ilingsworth," he began. "That's the first proposition. You say to——"

"Jug him," finished Flomerfelt. "Take the offensive. Make the first move."

Wilkinson snorted.

"That's where your 'prentice hand shows up, just as I knew it would. I'm going to let him go."

Flomerfelt started.

"What!" he ejaculated.

Wilkinson grinned. Slowly he gathered together the newspapers littering his desk and deposited them in the waste-basket. Then he turned to Flomerfelt.

"Now, you whippersnapper of an understudy," he paused a moment, "the reason I'm going to let him go, is because I'm going to lay the blame of this whole thing on Giles Ilingsworth. See?"

Flomerfelt looked at the extras, at his chief, at the walls, the hangings—now still as death they were—and at the floor. Then he rose and paced the floor with that noiseless tread of his. Finally he stopped, and swinging his lithe body about, once more faced his chief.

"By George, Wilkinson, you're great!" he exclaimed. "Ilingsworth a scapegoat! How did you ever think of it?"