"So it's you, my boy! I thought no one else would butt in at this time in the morning. Well, and what brings you now? I thought you were in Portugal!"
Bertie Morris, who smoked a cigarette which had the obliging quality of rarely being alight, sat down by his friend's bedside and thrust his felt hat still farther upon the back of his head.
"Guess I came over last night—the hotel clerk said you were visiting. Say, I must have a talk with you. Benjamin has cabled Paris for the news, and he's got to have it. You know Benjamin, sure! Well, then, you know what you've got to do."
Faber knew Benjamin Barnett of the New York Mitre very well, but the process of "doing it" seemed to amuse him. He sat up in bed and called for his man, Frank, who had been brushing his clothes in the bathroom.
"A quarter past nine, sir."
"Then go and order half a dozen Bass's ale for Mr. Morris, and bring me my coffee."
The journalist offered no objection whatever to this drastic prescription, and when the beer was brought, and coffee, with hot-house grapes and other fine fruit, had been set at the bedside, he drained a glass to the dregs and then spoke up.
"Benjamin says the strike on their side is going to keep wheat out of England for a month. You're the man most concerned in that, for a word from you could end it. It's because your Charleston people went out that the others followed. What I'm thinking is that you're hoist with your own petard. You must tell me if it's true or false?"
Faber was out of bed by this time, dressed in a wonderful Japanese kimono which gave him the appearance of a theatrical mandarin. He was always amused by Bertie Morris, and generally ready to help him. Now, however, he seemed at a loss, and he walked to the window and looked out before he gave him any answer whatsoever.