beside the bureau, the tiniest little iron wash-stand in the world. In
the chair sat a man, not tiny, indeed, but certainly nobody's prize
giant. He sat in a kind of whirling tempest of books and papers, and he
rode absorbedly in the whirlwind and majestically directed the storm.

West was intensely interested. "Mr. Queed?" he asked, from just inside
the door.

"Yes," said the other, not looking up. "What can I do for you?"

West burst out laughing; he couldn't help it.

"Maybe you can do a great deal, Mr. Queed. On the other hand maybe I can
do some little trifle for you. Which leg the boot is on nobody on earth
can say at this juncture. I have ventured to call," said he, "as an
ambassador from the morning _Post_ of this city."

"The _Post_?"

The name instantly started Queed's memory to working; he recalled
something about the _Post_--as yet, so it happened, only the copy of it
he had read; and he turned and looked around with slow professorial
amusement kindling in his eyes.

"Ah!" said he. "Possibly you are Colonel Cowles, the military political
economist?"

West was more amused than ever. "No," said he, "on the contrary, West is
the name, C.G. West--to correspond, you know, with the one on that card
you have in your hand. I'll sit down here on the bed--shall I?--so that