in need of it, and Henry could
better spare the money.

It was left to Henry to suggest that perhaps the loan of a pound, "as
between two fellow-journalists," would not be amiss. "Most men of
letters," he added kindly, "have at one time or other experienced
reverses of fortune. There is no hurry for repayment."

"I am most grateful; you are indeed a good friend to me," said Trevor,
not without a touch of real emotion; "and if only I can get _Jinks's
Weekly_ to use a three-guinea article on 'A Week in a Dosshouse,' you
shall have the money back soon. They took an article from me--nearly two
years ago--on 'Fortunes made in Journalism.' I got four guineas for it;
but it was the only thing of any length I have managed to place since
coming to town."

The odd couple parted at the restaurant door, and Trevor Smith shuffled
off Strandwards without any profuse thanks, for he was one of those who,
lacking both the capacity and the opportunity to succeed, when overtaken
by misfortune become so shrivelled in character that they display not
even the melancholy pluck necessary to mendicancy. The chances were that
he and Henry would never meet again. The stout ship under full sail had
sighted the derelict for a moment--that was all. Like so many of his
kind, Trevor Smith was fated to sink out of sight in the dark,
mysterious oubliette of London's failures.

The assistant editor of the _Watchman_ returned to his office almost as
sad at heart, if not more so, than the man he had left, whose heart was
numbed and passionless.

The office of his paper was scarcely so elegant as he had once imagined
all London editorial quarters to be. The entrance was a fairly wide slit
between a barber's and a tobacconist's, the stairs as mean as those at
the office of the _Wheelton Guardian_; but the first floor, occupied by
the newspaper, was remarkably well furnished, Mr. Godfrey Pilkington
being a gentleman of some taste, and the proprietor of the _Watchman_
did not stint him in such items of expense. At first Henry had marvelled
that a peer of the realm could have deigned to mount such miserable
stairs or to trust his august person in elbowing between the barber's
and the tobacconist's, but he soon learned that the most unpretentious
accommodation on the highway of journalism may cost as much as marble
halls in a provincial city.

The editor, as Adrian Grant had hinted, was no glutton for work, and an
hour or two each day appeared to satisfy