He snatched a hat and went out. Presently he found himself in Pen and Ink Square, with the ceaseless grumble of the news-producing engines throbbing in the air. Before him was a doorway over which was written “The Oracle.” He knew “The Oracle” for a democratic organ which shrieked obscenely at the politics and morals of the country—under the guise of seeking to purify, it contrived to include in its columns some very prurient matter, without which its sales would have been even smaller than they were.
Wynne walked straight in, mounted some stairs, and beholding a door labelled “Editor—Private,” entered without knocking.
“Who the devil are you?” said a stout man sitting before a roll-top desk.
“You wouldn’t know if I told you,” replied Wynne. “I’m nobody yet.”
“What d’you want?”
“Thought I’d write some articles for you.”
“Think again—outside!”
“Might not get in so easily another time.”
“Well, get out now, then.”
“That’s very foolish. How d’you know I may not be bringing you a fortune?”