Until one day a newspaper reporter glanced carelessly through the hotel register.  The only thing which escapes the newspaper man is the art of saving; otherwise he is omnipotent.  He sees things, anticipates events, and often prearranges them; smells war if the secretary of the navy is seen to run for a street-car, is intimately acquainted with “the official in the position to know” and “the man higher up,” “the gentleman on the inside,” and other anonymous but famous individuals.  He is tireless, impervious to rebuff, also relentless; as an investigator of crime he is the keenest hound of them all; often he does more than expose, he prevents.  He is the Warwick of modern times; he makes and unmakes kings, sceptral and financial.

This particular reporter sent his card up to Mr. Thornden and was, after half an hour’s delay, admitted to the suite.  Mr. Thornden laid aside his tea-cup.

“I am a newspaper man, Mr. Thornden,” said the young man, his eye roving about the room, visualizing everything, from the slices of lemon to the brilliant eyes of the valet.

“Ah! a pressman.  What will you be wanting to see me about, sir?”—­neither hostile nor friendly.

“Do you intend to remain long in America—­incog?”

“Incog!” Mr. Thorndon leaned forward in his chair and drew down his eyebrow tightly against the rim of his monocle.

“Yes, sir.  I take it that you are Lord Henry Monckton, ninth Baron of Dimbledon.”

Master and man exchanged a rapid glance.

“Tibbets,” said the master coldly, “you registered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you register?”

“Oh,” interposed the reporter, “it was the name Dimbledon caught my eye, sir.  You see, there was a paragraph in one of our London exchanges that you had sailed for America.  I’m what we call a hotel reporter; hunt up prominent and interesting people for interviews.  I’m sure yours is a very interesting story, sir.”  The reporter was a pleasant, affable young man, and that was why he was so particularly efficient in his chosen line of work.

“I was not prepared to disclose my identity so soon,” said Lord Monckton ruefully.  “But since you have stumbled upon the truth, it is far better that I give you the facts as they are.  Interviewing is a novel experience.  What do you wish to know, sir?”

And thus it was that, next morning, New York—­and the continent as well—­learned that Lord Henry Monckton, ninth Baron of Dimbledon, had arrived in America on a pleasure trip.  The story read more like the scenario of a romantic novel than a page from life.  For years the eighth Baron of Dimbledon had lived in seclusion, practically forgotten.  In India he had a bachelor brother, a son and a grandson.  One day he was notified of the death (by bubonic plague) of these three male members of his family, the baron himself collapsed and died shortly after.  The title and estate went to another branch of the family.  A hundred years before, a daughter of the house had run away with the head-gardener and been disowned.  The great-great-grand-son of this woman became the ninth baron.  The present baron’s life was recounted in full; and an adventurous life it had been, if the reporter was to be relied upon.  The interview appeared in a London journal, with the single comment—­“How those American reporters misrepresent things!”