th shaded candle to a
bedside. If only Tommy wouldn't "do" for him! If only she could be
persuaded to "do" something else.

Another happy thought occurred to Peter.

"Tommy--I mean Jane," said Peter, "I know what I'll do with you."

"What's the game now?"

"I'll make a journalist of you."

"Don't talk rot."

"It isn't rot. Besides, I won't have you answer me like that. As a
Devil--that means, Tommy, the unseen person in the background that helps
a journalist to do his work--you would be invaluable to me. It would pay
me, Tommy--pay me very handsomely. I should make money out of you."

This appeared to be an argument that Tommy understood. Peter, with
secret delight, noticed that the chin retained its normal level.

"I did help a chap to sell papers, once," remembered Tommy; "he said I
was fly at it."

"I told you so," exclaimed Peter triumphantly. "The methods are
different, but the instinct required is the same. We will get a woman in
to relieve you of the housework."

The chin shot up into the air.

"I could do it in my spare time."

"You see, Tommy, I should want you to go about with me--to be always with
me."

"Better try me first. Maybe you're making an error."

Peter was learning the wisdom of the serpent.

"Quite right, Tommy. We will first see what you can do. Perhaps, after
all, it may turn out that you are better as a cook." In his heart Peter
doubted this.

But the seed had fallen upon good ground. It was Tommy herself that
manoeuvred her first essay in journalism. A great man had come to
London--was staying in apartments especially prepared for him in St.
James's Palace. Said every journalist in London to himself: "If I could
obtain an interview with this Big Man, what a big thing it would be for
me!" For a week past, Peter had carried everywhere about with him a
paper headed: "Interview of Our Special Correspondent with Prince Blank,"
questions down left-hand column, very narrow; space for answers right-
hand side, very wide. But the Big Man was experienced.

"I wonder," said Peter, spreading the neatly folded paper on the desk
before him, "I wonder if there can be any way of getting at him--any
dodge or trick, any piece of low cunning, any plausible lie that I
haven't thought of."

"Old Man Martin--called himself Martini--was just such another,"
commented Tommy. "Come pay time, Saturday afternoon, you just couldn't
get at him--simply wasn't any way. I was a bit t