when mr. bodery opened the door of the room upon the second floor of the tall house in the strand that morning, he found mr. morgan seated at the table surrounded by proof-sheets, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves tucked up. the subeditor of the beacon was in reality a good hard worker in his comfortable way, and there was little harm in his desire that the world should be aware of his industry.

“good morning, morgan,” said the editor, hanging up his hat.

“morning,” replied the other genially, but without looking up. before mr. bodery had seated himself, however, the sub-editor laid his hand with heavy approval upon the odoriferous proof-sheet before him, and looked up.

“this article of vellacott's is first-rate,” he said. “by jove! sir, he drops on these holy fathers—lets them have it right and left. the way he has worked out the thing is wonderful, and that method of putting everything upon supposition is a grand idea. it suggests how the thing could be done upon the face of it, while the initiated will see quickly enough that it means to show how the trick was in reality performed—ha, ha!”

“yes,” replied mr. bodery absently. he was glancing at the pile of letters that lay upon his desk. there were among them one or two telegrams, and these he put to one side while he took up each envelope in succession to examine the address, throwing it down again unopened. at length he turned again to the telegrams, and picked up the top one. he was about to tear open the envelope when there was a sharp knock at the door.

“'m'in!” said mr. morgan sharply, and at the same moment the silent door was thrown open. the diminutive form of the boy stood in the aperture.

“gentleman to see you, sir,” he said, with great solemnity.

“what name?” asked mr. bodery.

“wouldn't give his name, sir—said you didn't know it, sir.”

even this small office-boy was allowed his quantum of discretionary power. it rested with him whether an unknown visitor was admitted or politely dismissed to a much greater extent than any one suspected. into his manner of announcing a person he somehow managed to convey his opinion as to whether it was worth the editor's time to admit him or not, and he invariably received mr. bodery's “tell him i'm engaged” with a little nod of mutual understanding which was intensely comprehensive.

on this occasion, his manner said, “have him in, have him in my boy, and you will find it worth your while.”

“show him in,” said mr. bodery.

the nameless gentleman must have been at the door upon the boy's heels, for no sooner had the words left mr. bodery's lips than a tall, dark form slid into the room. so noiseless and rapid were this gentleman's movements that there is no other word with which to express his mode of progression.

he made a low bow, and shot up erect again with startling rapidity. he then stood quietly waiting until the door had closed behind the small boy, who, after having punctiliously expectorated upon a silver coin which had found its way into the palm of his hand, proceeded to slide down the balustrade upon his waistcoat.

it often occurred that strangers addressed themselves to mr. morgan when ushered into the little back room, under the impression that he was the editor of the beacon. not so, however, this tall, clean-shaven person. he fixed his peculiar light-blue eyes upon mr. bodery, and, with a slight inclination, said suavely—

“this, sir, is, i believe, your printing day?”

“it is, sir, and a busy day with us,” replied the editor, with no great warmth of manner.

“would it be possible now,” inquired the stranger conversationally, “at this late hour, to remove a printed article and substitute another?”

at these words mr. morgan ceased making some pencil notes with which he was occupied, and looked up. he met the stranger's benign glance and, while still looking at him, deliberately turned over all the proof-sheets before him, leaving no printed matter exposed to the gaze of the curious.

mr. bodery had in the meantime consulted his watch.

“yes,” he replied, with dangerous politeness. “there would still be time to do so if necessary—at the sacrifice of some hundredweight of paper.”

“how marvellously organised your interesting paper must be!”

dead silence. most men would have felt embarrassed, but no sign of such feeling was forthcoming from any of the three. it is possible that the dark gentleman with the sky-blue eyes wished to establish a sense of embarrassment with a view to the furtherance of his own ends. if so, his attempt proved lamentably abortive. mr. bodery sat with his plump hands resting on the table, and looked contemplatively up into the stranger's face. mr. morgan was scribbling pencil notes on a tablet.

“the truth is,” explained the stranger at length, “that a friend of mine, who is unfortunately ill in bed this morning—”

(mr. bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, though he listened attentively.)

“... has received a telegram from a gentleman who i am told is on the staff of your journal—mr. vellacott. this gentleman wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article he has sent to you. he states that he will re-write the article, with certain alterations, in time for next week's issue.”

mr. bodery's face was pleasantly illegible.

“may i see the telegram?” he asked politely.

“certainly!”

the stranger produced and handed to the editor a pink paper covered with faint black writing.

“you will see at the foot this—mr. vellacott's reason for not wiring to you direct. he wished my friend to be here before the printers got to work this morning; but owing to this unfortunate illness—”

“i am afraid you are too late, sir,” interrupted mr. bodery briskly. “the press is at work—”

“my friend instructed me,” interposed the stranger in his turn, “to make you rather a difficult proposition. if a thousand pounds will compensate for the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray the expense of paper spoilt—i—i have that amount with me.”

mr. bodery did not display the least sign of surprise, merely shaking his head with a quiet smile. mr. morgan, however, laid aside his pencil, and placed his elbow upon the proof-sheets before him.

the stranger then stepped forward with a sudden change of manner.

“mr. bodery,” he said, in a low, concentrated voice, “i will give you five hundred pounds for a proof copy of mr. vellacott's article.”

a dead silence of some moments' duration followed this remark. mr. morgan raised his head and looked across the table at his chief. the editor made an almost imperceptible motion with his eyebrows in the direction of the door.

then mr. morgan rose somewhat heavily from his chair, with a hand upon either arm, after the manner of a man who is beginning to put on weight rapidly. he went to the door, opened it, and, turning towards the stranger, said urbanely:

“sir—the door!”

this kind invitation was not at once accepted.

“you refuse my offers?” said the stranger curtly, without deigning to notice the sub-editor.

mr. bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he was cutting open the envelopes, one by one, with a paper-knife, without, however, removing the contents. he looked up.

“to-morrow morning,” he said, “you will be able to procure a copy from any stationer for the trifling sum of sixpence.”

then the stranger walked slowly past mr. morgan out of the room.

“a curse on these englishmen!” he muttered, as he passed down the narrow staircase. “if i could only see the article i could tell whether it is worth resorting to stronger measures or not. however, that is talma's business to decide, not mine.”

mr. morgan closed the door of the small room and resumed his seat. he then laughed aloud, but mr. bodery did not respond.

“that's one of them,” observed mr. morgan comprehensively.

“yes,” replied the editor, “a dangerous customer. i do not like a blue-chinned man.”

“i was not much impressed with his diplomatic skill.”

“no; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. no doubt his information was of the scantiest, and—we are not chickens, morgan.”

“no,” said mr. morgan, with a little sigh. he turned to the revision of the proof-sheets again, while the editor began opening and reading his telegrams.

“this is a little strong,” exclaimed mr. morgan, after a few moments of silence, broken only by the crackle of paper. “just listen here:—

“'it simply comes to this—the general of the society of jesus is an autocrat in the worst sense of the word. he holds within his fingers the wires of a vast machine moving with little friction and no noise. no farthest corner of the world is entirely beyond its influence; no political crisis passes that is not hurried on or restrained by its power. unrecognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, the vast society does its work. it is not for us who live in a broad-minded, tolerant age to judge too harshly. it is not for us to say that the jesuits are unscrupulous and treacherous. let us be just and give them their due. they are undoubtedly earnest in their work, sincere in their belief, true to their faith. but it is for us to uphold our own integrity. we are accused—as a nation—of stirring up the seeds of rebellion, of crime and bloodshed in the heart of another country. our denial is considered insufficient; our evidence is ignored. there remains yet to us one mode of self-defence. after denying the crime (for crime it is in humane and political sense) we can turn and boldly lay it upon those whom its results would chiefly benefit: the roman catholic church in general—the society of jesus in particular. we have endeavoured to show how the followers of ignatius loyola could have brought about the present crisis in france; the extent to which they would benefit by a religious reaction is patent to the most casual observer; let the government of england do the rest.'”

mr. bodery was, however, not listening. he was staring vacantly at a telegram which lay spread out upon the table.

“what is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed huskily.

the sub-editor looked up sharply, with his pen poised in the air. then mr. bodery read:

“is vellacott with you? fear something wrong. disappeared from here last night.”

mr. morgan moved in his seat, stretching one arm out, while he pensively rubbed his clean-shaven chin and looked critically across the table.

“who is it from?” he asked.

“sidney carew, the man he is staying with.”

they remained thus for some moments; the editor looking at the telegram with a peculiar blank expression in his eyes; mr. morgan staring at him while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with outspread finger and thumb. in the lane beneath the window some industrious housekeeper was sweeping her doorstep with aggravating monotony; otherwise there was no sound.

at length mr. morgan rose from his seat and walked slowly to the window. he stood gazing out upon the smoke-begrimed roofs and crooked chimneys. between his lips he held his pen, and his hands were thrust deeply into his trouser pockets. it was on that spot and in that attitude that he usually thought out his carefully written weekly article upon “home affairs.” he was still there when the editor touched a small gong which stood on the table at his side. the silent door instantly opened, and the supernaturally sharp boy stood on the threshold grimly awaiting his orders.

“bradshaw.”

“yess'r,” replied the boy, closing the door. his inventive mind had conceived a new and improved method of going downstairs. this was to lie flat on his back upon the balustrade with a leg dangling on either side. if the balance was correct, he slid down rapidly and shot out some feet from the bottom, as he had, from an advantageous point of view on blackfriars bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot from a thames warehouse into the barge beneath. if, however, he made a miscalculation, he inevitably rolled off sideways and landed in a heap on the floor. either result appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and exhilaration. on this occasion he performed the feat with marked success.

“guv'nor's goin' on the loose—wants the railway guide,” he confided to a small friend in the printing interest whom he met as he was returning with the required volume.

“suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then,” remarked the black-fingered one with fine sarcasm. whereupon there followed a feint—a desperate lunge to one side, a vigorous bob of the head, and a resounding bang with the railway guide in the centre of the sarcastic youth's waistcoat.

having executed a strategic movement, and a masterly retreat up the stairs, the small boy leant over the banisters and delivered himself of the following explanation:

“i 'it yer one that time. don't do it agin. good morning, sir.”

mr. bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, stopped, looked rapidly down a column, and, without raising his eyes from the railway guide, tore a telegraph form from the handle of a drawer at his side. then he wrote in a large clear style:

“will be with you at five o'clock. invent some excuse for v.'s absence. on no account give alarm to authorities.”

the sharp boy took the telegram from the editor's hand with an expression of profound respect upon his wicked features.

“go down to banks,” said mr. bodery, “ask him to let me have two copies of the foreign policy article in ten minutes.”

when the silent door was closed, mr. morgan wheeled round upon his heels, and gazed meditatively at his superior.

“going down to see these people?” he asked, with a jerk of his head towards the west.

“yes, i am going by the eleven-fifteen.”

“i have been thinking,” continued the sub-editor, “we may as well keep the printing-office door locked to-day. that slippery gentleman with the watery eyes meant business, or i am very much mistaken. i'll just send upstairs for bander to go on duty at the shop door to-day as well as to-morrow; i think we shall have a big sale this week.”

mr. bodery rose from his seat and began brushing his faultless hat.

“yes,” he replied; “do that. it would be very easy to get at the machinery. printers are only human!”

“machinery is ready enough to go wrong when nobody wishes it,” murmured mr. morgan vaguely, as he sat down at the table and began setting the scattered papers in order.

mr. bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. this expedient was due to christian vellacott's forethought.

the editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were already there.

“i say, bodery,” said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, “it seems to me that you are taking much too serious a view of this matter. vellacott is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck me that he was very well able to take care of himself.”

“i have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means of justification. a fanatic is always dangerous.”

“a sincere fanatic,” suggested the sub-editor.

“exactly so; and a sincere fanatic in the hands of an agitator is the very devil. that is whence these fellows got their power. half of them are fanatics and the other half hypocrites.”

mr. bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plump hand, which the subeditor grasped.

“i hope,” said the latter, “that you will find vellacott at the station to meet you—ha, ha!”

“i hope so.”

“if,” said mr. morgan, following the editor to the door—“if he turns up here, i will wire to carew and to you, care of the station-master.”