black silk cravat, secured by a couple of gold pins chained
together. Watching him as he now sat writing, his long legs
encased in tightly strapped grey trousering, crossed beneath the
table, the lamplight falling on his fresh-complexioned face, upon
the shapely hand that steadied the half-written sheet, a stranger
might have rubbed his eyes, wondering by what hallucination he thus
found himself in presence seemingly of some 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.