Douglas admitted the fact, and the newcomer eyed him keenly.
"Will you write me a London letter of a thousand words three times a week for ten pounds?" he asked abruptly.
"Certainly, if you think I can send you what you want," Douglas answered promptly.
"The Countess answers for it that you can. I've seen your work in the Courier. It's exactly what I wish for—pithy, to the point, crisp and interesting. Never be beguiled into a long sentence, abjure politics as much as possible, and read other London letters that you may learn what to avoid. I can't give you better advice than this."
"I'll try," Douglas declared, laughing.
The elderly gentleman picked up his hat, declined coffee vigorously, and liqueurs scornfully.
"Ten pounds a week," he said, "three months notice either side, and no work of the same sort for any other country paper. I'll be frank with you. I shall sell the letters out, and make a profit on 'em. A dozen newspapers'll take them. Good-night. Address here."
He laid down a card and disappeared. Douglas looked at his companion and laughed. They sat upon a lounge placed back between the fountain and the palms, and drank their coffee. Douglas lit a cigarette.
"Why, I'm a rich man," he exclaimed. "I suppose it's all right."
"Oh, it's quite genuine," she said, "but you ought to have asked more money. Mr. Anderson is very odd, but he's honest and liberal, and a great friend of mine.