“Come in!” repeated Mr. Peter Hope for the third time. “Who is it?”
A hand not over clean, grasping a greasy cloth cap, appeared below the face.
“Not ready yet,” said Mr. Hope. “Sit down and wait.”
The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in and, closing the door behind it, sat itself down upon the extreme edge of the chair nearest.
“Which are you—Central News or Courier?” demanded Mr. Peter Hope, but without looking up from his work.
The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of the room by a careful scrutiny of the smoke-grimed ceiling, descended and fixed themselves upon the one clearly defined bald patch upon his head that, had he been aware of it, would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope. But the full, red lips beneath the turned-up nose remained motionless.
That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have escaped the attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The thin, white hand moved steadily to and fro across the paper. Three more sheets were added to those upon the floor. Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and turned his gaze for the first time upon his visitor.
To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus Printer’s Devil, small white faces, tangled hair, dirty hands, and greasy caps were common objects in the neighbourhood of that buried rivulet, the Fleet. But this was a new species. Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found them after some trouble under a heap of newspapers, adjusted them upon his high, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and down.
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope. “What is it?”
The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came forward slowly.