The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of
the room by a careful scrutiny of the smoke-grimed ceiling,
descended and fixed themselves upon the one clearly defined bald
patch upon his head that, had he been aware of it, would have
troubled Mr. Peter Hope. But the full, red lips beneath the
turned-up nose remained motionless.

That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have
escaped the attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The thin, white hand
moved steadily to and fro across the paper. Three more sheets were
added to those upon the floor. Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his
chair and turned his gaze for the first time upon his visitor.

To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus
Printer's Devil, small white faces, tangled hair, dirty hands, and
greasy caps were common objects in the neighbourhood of that buried
rivulet, the Fleet. But this was a new species. Peter Hope sought
his spectacles, found them after some trouble under a heap of
newspapers, adjusted them upon his high, arched nose, leant
forward, and looked long and up and down.

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope. "What is it?"

The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came
forward slowly.

Over a tight-fitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively decollete,
it wore what once had been a boy's pepper-and-salt jacket. A
worsted comforter wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of