Within three minutes the scissors were again employed. The new cutting ran—
"There is trouble at Yildiz Kiosk. A Reuter's telegram from Constantinople states that a near relative of the Sultan has fled to France. The Porte have asked the French Government to apprehend him, but the French Ambassador has informed Riaz Pasha that this course is impracticable in the absence of any criminal charge."
"These two are one," said the barrister, as he turned towards Poe's bust and laid the slip by the side of its predecessor. This time he had mutilated a critique of an Ibsensite drama.
The rest of the newspaper's contents had no special interest for him, and he soon threw aside the journal in order to rise, light a cigarette, and muster sufficient energy to write a telegram accepting Lord Northallerton's invitation for the following day.
He was on the point of reaching for a telegraph form when Smith entered with a card. It bore the name and address—
"The Earl of Fairholme, Stanhope Gate."
"Curious," thought Brett. "Where is his lordship?" he said aloud—"at the door, or in the street?"
(His flat was on the second floor.)
"In a keb, sir."