eat, but
his pen never stopped for a second.

"Back, Miss Wendermott! Very good! What did you get?"

"Interview and sketch of the house," she responded briskly.

"Interview by Jove! That's good! Was he very difficult?"

"Ridiculously easy! Told me everything I asked and a lot more. If
I could have got it all down in his own language it would have been
positively thrilling."

The sub-editor scribbled in silence for a moment or two. He had reached
an important point in his own work. His pen went slower, hesitated for a
moment, and then dashed on with renewed vigour.

"Read the first few sentences of what you've got," he remarked.

Ernestine obeyed. To all appearance the man was engrossed in his own
work, but when she paused he nodded his head appreciatively.

"It'll do!" he said. "Don't try to polish it. Give it down, and see that
the proofs are submitted to me. Where's the sketch?"

She held it out to him. For a moment he looked away from his own work
and took the opportunity to light a fresh cigarette. Then he nodded,
hastily scrawled some dimensions on the margin of the little drawing and
settled down again to work.

"It'll do," he said. "Give it to Smith. Come back at eight to look at
your proofs after I've done with them. Good interview! Good sketch!
You'll do, Miss Wendermott."

She went out laughing softly. This was quite the longest conversation
she had ever had with the chief. She made her way to the side of the
first disengaged typist, and sitting in an easy-chair gave down her
copy, here and there adding a little but leaving it mainly in the rough.
She knew whose hand, with a few vigorous touches would bring the whole
thing into the form which the readers of the "Hour", delighted in, and
she was quite content to have it so. The work was interesting and more
than an hour had passed before she rose and put on her gloves.

"I am coming back at eight," she said, "but the proofs are to go in to
Mr. Darrel! Nothing come in for me, I suppose?"

The girl shook her head, so Ernestine walked out into the street. Then
she remembered Cecil Davenant and his strange manner--the story which
he was even now waiting to tell her. She looked at her watch and after a
moment's hesitation called a hansom.

81, Culpole Street, she told him. "This is a little extravagant," she
said to herself as the man wheeled his horse round, "but to-day I think
that I have earned it."

CHAPTER XVII

"Ernestine," he said gr