shooting of bolts, noises that were followed by the apparition of a
female head.

A few brief questions and the emissaries entered. A pause.

The litterateur is warning the menials that their charge is sacred;
that the sheets he has produced are impossible to replace. High words.
Abrupt re-opening of the front door. Struggling humanity projected on
to the pavement. Three persons--my scribe in the middle, an emissary on
either side--stagger strangely past me. The scribe enters the purple
night only under the stony compulsion of the emissaries.

What does this mean?

I have it. The emissaries have become over-anxious. They dare not face
the responsibility of conveying the priceless copy to Fleet Street.
They have completely lost their nerve. They insist upon the author
accompanying them to see with his own eyes that all is well. They do
not wish Posterity to hand their names down to eternal infamy as "the
men who lost Blank's manuscript."

So, greatly against his will, he is dragged off.

My vigil is rewarded. No. 93A harbours a Bohemian. Let it be inhabited
also by me.

I stepped across, and rang the bell.

The answer was a piercing scream.