see if my friend M. Forestier is here."

He was conducted along a corridor and ushered into a large room in
which four men were writing at a table. Forestier was standing
before the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. After listening to
Duroy's story he said:

"Come with me; I will take you to M. Walter, or else you might
remain here until seven o'clock."

They entered the manager's room. Norbert de Varenne was writing an
article, seated in an easychair; Jacques Rival, stretched upon a
divan, was smoking a cigar. The room had the peculiar odor familiar
to all journalists. When they approached M. Walter, Forestier said:
"Here is my friend Duroy."

The manager looked keenly at the young man and asked:

"Have you brought my article?"

Duroy drew the sheets of manuscript from his pocket.

"Here they are, Monsieur."

The manager seemed delighted and said with a smile: "Very good. You
are a man of your word. Need I look over it, Forestier?"

But Forestier hastened to reply: "It is not necessary, M. Walter; I
helped him in order to initiate him into the profession. It is very
good." Then bending toward him, he whispered: "You know you promised