Amongst the callers was an Englishman who sent in word that he was a local correspondent for the Europe Chronicle. Rivière had him shown into the garden of the villa, to the arbour. The would-be interviewer was a man of thirty, quiet and secretive looking, with a heavy dark moustache curtaining the expression of his lips. "Morris Sylvester" was the name on his card.
He carried a hand-camera, which he placed on a seat beside him and pointed it towards the path from the house. As Rivière approached, Sylvester's left hand was fingering the silent release of the instantaneous shutter. He had made a practice of working his camera surreptitiously while his eyes held the eyes of his subject.
"Mr Sylvester," began Rivière, "I want to ask you a favour, as one Englishman to another. Publicity is extremely distasteful to the lady who has been so terribly injured. To have her story spread broadcast for the satisfaction of idle curiosity would only add to her sufferings. Isn't it possible for you to suppress this story?"
Sylvester looked hesitant. "I am sincerely sorry for the lady," he said. "But of course I have my duty to my journal. I had intended to wire a full column, and take a picture of the scene of the attack by the Druids' Tower." He took up his camera from the seat beside him, as though to show his purpose.
After a moment of reflection he added: "Would it satisfy you if I were to suppress names?"
"I would much rather you wrote nothing at all," replied Rivière. "I know that I can't insist. I appeal to your generosity in the matter."
"Very well. Under the circumstances, in deference to the feelings of your friend, I'll take it on myself to suppress the story."
"That's very kind of you. Is there no form of quid pro quo...?" suggested Rivière tentatively.
"Thanks—nothing."
"You'll take something with me before you go?"