Mr. Lavender followed up some stairs, greatly gratified at the thought that he was expected.  The young man led him through one or two swing doors into an outer office, where a young woman was typing.

Mr. Lavender shook his head, and sat down on the edge of a green leather chair.  The editor, resuming his seat, crossed his legs deferentially, and sinking his chin again on his chest, began: 

“About your article.  My only trouble, of course, is that I’m running that stunt on British prisoners—­great success!  You’ve seen it, I suppose?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Lavender; I read you every day.

The editor made a little movement which showed that he was flattered, and sinking his chin still further into his chest, resumed: 

“It might run another week, or it might fall down to-morrow—­you never can tell.  But I’m getting lots of letters.  Tremendous public interest.”

“Yes, yes,” assented Mr. Lavender, “it’s most important.”

“Of course, we might run yours with it,” said the editor.  “But I don’t know; I think it’d kill the other.  Still——­”

“I shouldn’t like——­” began Mr. Lavender.

“I don’t believe in giving them more than they want, you know,” resumed the editor.  “I think I’ll have my news editor in,” and he blew into a tube.  “Send me Mr. Crackamup.  This thing of yours is very important, sir.  Suppose we began to run it on Thursday.  Yes, I should think they’ll be tired of British prisoners by then.”

“Don’t let me,” began Mr. Lavender.

The editor’s eye became unveiled for the Moment.  “You’ll be wanting to take it somewhere else if we——­Quite!  Well, I think we could run them together.  See here, Mr. Crackamup”—­Mr. Lavender saw a small man like Beethoven frowning from behind spectacles—­“could we run this German prisoner stunt alongside the British, or d’you think it would kill it?”

Mr. Lavender almost rose from his chair in surprise.  “Are you——­” he said; “is it——­”

The small man hiccoughed, and said in a raw voice: 

“The letters are falling off.”

“Ah!” murmured the editor, “I thought we should be through by Thursday.  We’ll start this new stunt Thursday.  Give it all prominence, Crackamup.  It’ll focus fury.  All to the good—­all to the good.  Opinion’s ripe.”  Then for a moment he seemed to hesitate, and his chin sank back on his chest.  “I don’t know,” he murmured of course it may——­”

“Please,” began Mr. Lavender, rising, while the small man hiccoughed again.  The two motions seemed to determine the editor.

“That’s all right, sir,” he said, rising also; “that’s quite all right.  We’ll say Thursday, and risk it.  Thursday, Crackamup.”  And he held out his hand to Mr. Lavender.  “Good morning, sir, good morning.  Delighted to have seen you.  You wouldn’t put your name to it?  Well, well, it doesn’t matter; only you could have written it.  The turn