Evening fell. Blinds began to be drawn down. Lamps were lit behind
them, one by one. Despair was gnawing at my heart, but still I waited.

Then, just as I was about to retire defeated, I was arrested by the
appearance of a house numbered 93A.

At the first-floor window sat a man. He was writing. I could see his
profile, his long untidy hair. I understood in a moment. This was no
ordinary writer. He was one of those Bohemians whose wit had been
exercised upon me so successfully. He was a literary man, and though he
enjoyed the sport as much as any of the others he was under the
absolute necessity of writing his copy up to time. Unobserved by his
gay comrades, he had slipped away to his work. They were still watching
me; but he, probably owing to a contract with some journal, was obliged
to give up his share in their merriment and toil with his pen.

His pen fascinated me. I leaned against the railings of the house
opposite, enthralled. Ever and anon he seemed to be consulting one or
other of the books of reference piled up on each side of him. Doubtless
he was preparing a scholarly column for a daily paper. Presently a
printer's devil would arrive, clamouring for his "copy." I knew exactly
the sort of thing that happened. I had read about it in novels.

How unerring is instinct, if properly cultivated. Hardly had the clocks
struck twelve when the emissaries--there were two of them, which showed
the importance of their errand--walked briskly to No. 93A, and knocked
at the door.

The writer heard the knock. He rose hurriedly, and began to collect his
papers. Meanwhile, the knocking had been answered from within by the