"Hurrah! The Intelligence will have it in time for the morning edition," he exclaimed; as he stumbled out of the telegraph office, having waited to make sure that the operator had made a move.
Meanwhile Craddock, mounted on a wretched transport mule, ambled into the city. He grumbled mightily when he discovered that the Censor's office was closed for the night; but reflecting that gold might do the trick, he borrowed some money from an obliging officer, and made his way to the telegraph office.
"Pardon, monsieur, but this dispatch does not bear the official stamp," said the operator, suavely. "Without being viséed I can do nothing but refuse to accept it."
Craddock was checkmated. Persuasion and bribery alike were thrown away, and disgustedly he prepared to return to his quarters.
"Anyway, to-morrow will do," thought he. "I've scored, after all's said and done. I'm sorry for that youngster, though. He was green, but he had grit. It's a pity he's gone under. Well, it's the fortune of war, I suppose."
Entering the quarters assigned to the Press representatives the American suddenly pulled up and stood stock still, with his eyes bulging out of his head, and his mouth wide open.
He was face to face with Jack Devereux.
"Done you this time, Craddock," exclaimed the Intelligence man, affably.
"Snakes! You don't mean to say that you've——"
"Certainly," replied Devereux, throwing himself wearily upon his couch, and stifling a yawn. "To quote your own words: personal feelings must stand aside when journalistic reputation is at stake."