"Yes," said the editor, in surprise. His secret surmise was that
some one had died and left him a legacy which would enable him to
retire from newspaper work. (This is the unacknowledged dream that
haunts many journalists.) Mr. Bleak was wondering whether this was
the way in which legacies were announced.

The man in the gray uniform set the bag down with great care on
the large flat desk. He drew out a key and unlocked it. Before
opening it he looked round the room. The city editor and three
reporters were watching curiously. A shy gayety twinkled in his
clear blue eyes.

"Mr. Bleak," he said, "you and these other gentlemen present are
men of discretion--?"

Bleak made a gesture of reassurance.

The other leaned over the suit-case and lifted the lid.

The bag was divided into several compartments. In one, the
startled editor beheld a nest of tall glasses; in another, a
number of interesting flasks lying in a porcelain container among
chipped ice. In the lid was an array of straws, napkins, a flat
tray labeled CLOVES, and a bunch of what looked uncommonly like
mint leaves. Mr. Bleak did not speak, but his pulse was
disorderly.

The man in gray drew out five tumblers and placed them on the
desk. Rapidly several bottles caught the light: there was a
gesture of pouring, a clink of ice, and beneath the spellbound