'Yes, I know, I know; there's got to be a good deal of sifting, but we must go gently. We don't want to set Fleet Street humming. Look here! What about old Harbottle? He has a room, hasn't he?'
'Mr. Harbottle has had his room here, Mr. Arncliffe, for just upon twenty-seven years.'
'Yes; I thought so. Where is it?'
'Mr. Harbottle's room is immediately overhead.'
'Let's have a look at it. Do you mind? Can you spare a minute?'
'Oh, I am quite at your service, of course, Mr. Arncliffe.'
A minion from the messenger's office walked processionally before us bearing a key, and presently we were in Mr. Harbottle's sanctuary. Two well-worn saddle-bag chairs stood before the hearth, and between them a chastely designed little table. On the rug was a pair of roomy slippers. In a glass-fronted cabinet one saw decanters and tumblers. Against one wall stood a large and comfortable couch. The writing-table was supplied with virgin blotting-paper, new pens, works of reference, ash-tray, matches, and the like; and over the mantel hung a full-length portrait of Lord Beaconsfield. There was also an ivory-handled copper kettle, and a patent coffee-making apparatus.
'H'm! The old boy makes himself comfortable,' said Arncliffe. 'He has written one short leader note since--since the change. And where does the other old gentleman work, Hutchens? The one with gout, you know. What's his name? The very old chap, I mean.'
'Dr. Powell? Dr. Powell's room is the next one to this.'
A key was brought to us, and we inspected another very similar apartment, which had a green baize-covered leg-rest on its hearth-rug.