Mr. Price thought of the little home at Peckham; of the three young Prices, of Mrs. Price and of sundry affections that grow up in the most arid and most unexpected soils: he was in an agony as to which course would least destroy him: he made one last appeal:
“May I have it in writing?”
“Certainly not!” said Evans.
“Very well, Mr. Evans,” said the sub-editor humbly, “I’ll stop the machines,” and with a heavy heart he rang the bell.
Thus it was that the Moon came out an hour later than usual, and that the leader dealt at so singular a moment with the pestilent vices of the King of Bohemia, and with his gross maladministration of Spitzbergen which it summoned to the bar of European opinion.
Those who have wondered why Edward, without previous training so soon after this incident was made a partner of the great bank he now adorns, would wonder less if they had been present at that interview.
The press was safe.
That the agencies were safe went of course without saying. Block A (as a group of eight papers owned by one man is familiarly called by permanent officials) had been squared, the day before. Block B, another group of six owned by a friend of his, was for private reasons unable to publish news of this kind. The Evening German wouldn’t dare, and the Bird of Freedom wouldn’t know. The Press was safe so far as Repton was concerned.
But what about Demaine?
The Herald had been informed pretty sharply that it was compelled for unavoidable reasons to postpone its interview with Sir Charles Repton. The very paragraph had been written out by Edward, and the Herald had swallowed the pill.