midnight train home. So this is Mr. Jesson, eh?"

Douglas admitted the fact, and the newcomer eyed him keenly.

"Will you write me a London letter of a thousand words three times a
week for ten pounds?" he asked abruptly.

"Certainly, if you think I can send you what you want," Douglas answered
promptly.

"The Countess answers for it that you can. I've seen your work in the
Courier. It's exactly what I wish for--pithy, to the point, crisp and
interesting. Never be beguiled into a long sentence, abjure politics as
much as possible, and read other London letters that you may learn what
to avoid. I can't give you better advice than this."

"I'll try," Douglas declared, laughing.

The elderly gentleman picked up his hat, declined coffee vigorously, and
liqueurs scornfully.

"Ten pounds a week," he said, "three months notice either side, and no
work of the same sort for any other country paper. I'll be frank with
you. I shall sell the letters out, and make a profit on 'em. A dozen
newspapers'll take them. Good-night. Address here."

He laid down a card and disappeared. Douglas looked at his companion
and laughed. They sat upon a lounge placed back between the fountain
and the palms, and drank their coffee. Douglas lit a cigarette.