me young beau belonging to the early 'forties;
but looking closer, would have seen the many wrinkles.

"Come in!" repeated Mr. Peter Hope, raising his voice, but not his eyes.

The door opened, and a small, white face, out of which gleamed a pair of
bright, black eyes, was thrust sideways into the room.

"Come in!" repeated Mr. Peter Hope for the third time. "Who is it?"

A hand not over clean, grasping a greasy cloth cap, appeared below the
face.

"Not ready yet," said Mr. Hope. "Sit down and wait."

The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in and, closing
the door behind it, sat itself down upon the extreme edge of the chair
nearest.

"Which are you--_Central News_ or _Courier_?" demanded Mr. Peter Hope,
but without looking up from his work.

The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of the
room by a careful scrutiny of the smoke-grimed ceiling, descended and
fixed themselves upon the one clearly defined bald patch upon his head
that, had he been aware of it, would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope. But
the full, red lips beneath the turned-up nose remained motionless.

That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have escaped
the attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The thin, white hand moved steadily to
and fro across the paper. Three more sheets were added to those upon the
floor. Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and turned his gaze for
the first time upon his visitor.

To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus Printer's
Devil, small white faces, tangled hair, dirty hands, and greasy caps were
common objects in the neighbourhood of that buried rivulet, the Fleet.
But this was a new species. Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found them
after some trouble under a heap of newspapers, adjusted them upon his
high, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and down.

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope. "What is it?"

The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came forward
slowly.

Over a tight-fitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively _decollete_, it
wore what once had been a boy's pepper-and-salt jacket. A worsted
comforter wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of throat
showing above the garibaldi. Below the jacket fell a long, black skirt,
the train of which had been looped up about the waist and fastened with a
cricket-belt.

"Who are you? What do you want?" asked Mr. Peter Hope.

For