Still intensely piqued by curiosity and vexation, Lillie telegraphed.
"Which?"
"Leave you to guess," answered the electric current.
CHAPTER VI.
THE GRAMMAR OF LOVE.
The Moon-man's name was Wilkins, and he did nine-tenths of the interviews in that model of the new journalism. Wilkins was the man to catch the weasel asleep, hit off his features with a kodak, and badger him the moment he awoke as to why he popped. Wilkins lived in a flat in Chancery Lane, and had his whiskey and his feet on the table when Silverdale turned the handle of the door in the gloaming.
"What do you want?" said Wilkins gruffly.
"I have come to ask you a few questions," said Silverdale politely.