The daily paper, The Capital, was about to go to press. The editors had handed over the last slips of copy with the latest news.
"Well, Fandor," asked the Secretary, "nothing more for me?"
"No, nothing."
"You won't spring a 'latest' on me?"
"Not unless the President of the Republic should be assassinated."
"Right enough. But don't joke. Lord, there's something else to be done just now."
The "setter up" appeared in the editor's rooms:
"I want sharp type for 'one,' and eight lines for 'two.'"
Discreetly, as a man accustomed to the business, Fandor withdrew on hearing the request of the "setter up," avoiding the searching glance of the sub-editor, who forthwith to meet the demands of the paging, called at random one of the reporters and passed on the order to him.
"Some lines of special type; eight lines. Take up the Cretan question on the Havas telegrams. Be quick!"