The other man was watching Douglas as though fascinated.

“He has written his way into greater things,” he murmured.  “It makes one feel like a hackneyed ‘penny-a-liner’ to read work like that.”

“He’s about done up,” Rawlinson said.  “Do you think I ought to stop him?”

“Not likely.  If there’s such a thing in the world as inspiration he’s got it now.  Don’t miss a line.  Let him write till he faints, but have some one watch him and give him a stiff whiskey and soda directly he stops.”

“I shall stay myself,” Rawlinson said.  “It’s an ‘off’ day to-morrow, anyhow.  Come and have a drink.”

From behind and below came the roar of machinery, rolls of wet proofs came flooding into the room at every moment.  Now and then a hansom set down a belated reporter, who passed swiftly in to his work, taking off his coat as he went.  Outside the sparrows began to chirp, dawn lightened the sky, and strange gleams of light stole into the vast room.  Then suddenly from Douglas’s desk came a sound.

Rawlinson rushed up too late to save him.  Douglas had swayed for a moment and then fallen over sideways.  He lay upon the ground a huddled heap, white and motionless.

They laid him flat upon his back, undid his clothing, and sent for a doctor.  A window a few yards away was thrown up and a rush of cold, fresh air streamed into the room.  But for all they could do Douglas never moved, and his face was like the face of a dead man.  Rawlinson stood up, horribly anxious, and gave way to the doctor, who felt his heart and looked grave.  For an hour the pendulum swung backwards and forwards between life and death.  Then the doctor stood up with a sigh of relief.

“He’ll do now,” he said; “but it was a narrow squeak.”

“Exhaustion?” Rawlinson asked.

“Starvation,” the doctor answered grimly.  “The man has been sober all his life, and a careful liver, or he would be dead now.  What are you going to do with him?  It’ll take him a day or two to pull round.”

“Whatever you advise,” Rawlinson answered.

“Has he any money?”

“You can treat him as though he were a millionaire,” Rawlinson answered.  “Give him every chance.  The Daily Courier pays cheerfully.”

* * * * *

They moved him into the private ward of a great hospital, where patients with complicated disorders and bottomless purses were sometimes treated, but where never before a man had come suffering from starvation.  Everything that science and careful nursing could do, was done for him, and in a few days be astonished them all by sitting up in bed suddenly and demanding to know what had happened.  He listened without emotion, he heard the generous message from the Daily Courier which, a month ago, would have set every pulse in his body tingling with excitement, without comment.  He grew rapidly stronger, but side by side with his