“’Allo! There are some people here to see you, M. Selden.”
“Who are they?”
“I do not know who they are, monsieur,” said the manager, “but they say they are journalists and that it is necessary they see you at once. I hope there has been no scandal....”
“Reassure yourself,” Selden laughed. “Cause them to be sent up to my room, if you please.”
Three minutes later there was a bang on his door, which was flung open without further ceremony—as he had been so certain it would be that he had not taken the trouble to rise.
“Hello!” he said, as they rushed upon him, “what’s the matter with you fellows, anyway? Why, hello, Scott—I’m mighty glad to see you. I didn’t know you were down here,” and he shook hands with Paul Scott, of the Daily News, the comrade of many a campaign and one of the best-informed men on international affairs in Europe. “Now what’s eating you?”
There were perhaps a dozen men in the crowd, and he nodded to the others that he knew.
“You know well enough what’s eating us, you damn pirate,” said Scott grimly. “Since when have you been the publicity man for that old toreador over at Nice?”
“I haven’t tackled that job yet,” said Selden; “I’m still working for the Times.”
“Then why should he send us all over here to see you?”