to so at once to The Mercury office and
announce his readiness to undertake any amount
of work. Accordingly he struck away across
the Borough, and, crossing Blackfriars-bridge,
dived among a mass of streets running at right
angles with Fleet-street, until he arrived at a
large, solemn, squat old building, over the door
of which glimmered a lamp with the words
"Mercury Office" in half-effaced characters. A
smart pull at a sharp, round, big bell brought a
preternaturally sharp boy to the door, who at
once recognised the visitor and admitted him
within the sacred precincts. Up a dark passage,
up a steep and regular flight of stairs,
George Dallas proceeded, until on the first floor
he rapped at the door facing him, and, being
bidden to come in, entered the editorial sanctum.

A large cheerless room, its floor covered with
a ragged, old Turkey carpet, on its walls two or
three bookshelves crammed with books of
reference, two or three maps, an old clock
gravely ticking, and a begrimed bust, with its
hair dust-powdered, and with layers of dust on
its highly developed cheek-bones. In the middle
of the room a battered old desk covered with
blue books, letters opened and unopened, piles
of manuscript under paper-weights, baskets
with cards of invitation for all sorts of soirees,
entertainments, and performances, and snake-like
india-rubber tubes for communication with
distant printing offices or reporters' rooms, a
big leaden inkstand like a bath, and a sheaf of
pens more or less dislocated. At this desk sat
a tall man of about fifty, bald-headed, large-bearded,
with sharp grey eyes, well-cut features,
and good presence. This was Mr. Leigh, editor
of The Mercury; a man who had been affiliated
to the press from the time of his leaving college,
who had been connected with nearly all the
morning journals in one capacity or another,
corresponent here, manager there, descriptive
writer, leader-writer, critic, and scrub, and who,
always rising, had been recommended by the
Jupiter Tonans of the press, the editor of The
Statesman, to fill the vacant editorial chair at
The Mercury. A long-headed, far-seeing man,
Grafton Leigh, bright as a diamond, and about
as hard, keen as a sword in the hands of a fine
fencer, and as difficult to turn aside, earnest,
energetic, devoted to his work, and caring for
nothing else in comparison—not even for his
wife, then sound asleep in his little house in
Brompton, or his boy working for his exhibition
from Westminster. He looked up as George
entered, and his features, tightly set, relaxed as
he recognised the young man.

"You, Ward!" said he. "We didn't look
for you till to-morrow night. What rush of
industry, what sudden desire to distinguish
yourself, has brought you here to-night, my
boy?"

Before George could answer, a young man
came forward from an inner room, and caught
him by the hand.

"What Paul, old fellow, this is delicious!
He must be brimming over with ideas, Chief,
and has come down here to ventilate them."

"Not I," said George. "My dear Chief,"
addressing Leigh, "both you and Cunningham
give me credit for more virtue than I possess.
I merely looked in as I passed from the railway,
to see how things were going on."

"This is a sell," said Mr. Cunningham. "I
thought I had booked you. You see that confounded
Shimmer has failed us again. He was
to have done us a sensation leader on the
murder——"

"The murder! What murder?"

"Oh, ah, I forgot; happened since you went
away. Wapping or Rotherhithe—some waterside
place—body found, and all that kind of
thing! Shimmer was to have done us one of
his stirrers, full of adjectives, denouncing the
supineness of the police, and that kind of thing,
and he's never turned up, and the Chief has
kept me here to fill his place. Confounded
nuisance! I'm obliged to fall back on my old
subject—Regulation of the City Traffic!"

"I'm very sorry for you, Cunningham," said
George, laughing; "but I can't help you to-night.
I'm seedy and tired, and I know nothing
about the murder, and want to get to bed.
However, I came to tell the Chief that I'm his
now and for ever, ready to do double tasks of
work from to-morrow out."

"All right, Ward. So long as you don't
overdo it, I shall always be delighted to have
you with us," said Mr. Leigh. "Now get home
to bed, for you look dog-tired." And George
Dallas shook hands with each, and went away.

"Glad to hear we're going to have a good
deal of work out of Ward, Chief," said Cunningham,
when he and his editor were alone again.
"He's deuced smart when he likes—as smart
as Shimmer, and a great deal more polished and
gentlemanly."

"Yes," said Grafton Leigh, "he's a decided
catch for the paper. I don't think his health
will last, though. Did you notice his manner
to-night?—nerves agitated and twitching, like
a man who had gone through some great excitement!"

CHAPTER X. DISPOSED OF.

It was very late when George Dallas arrived
at Routh's lodgings in South Molton-street, so
that he felt it necessary to announce his presence
by a peculiar knock, known only to the
initiated. He made the accustomed signal, but
the door was not opened for so abnormally long
an interval that he began to think he should have
to go away, and defer the telling of the good news
until the morning. He had knocked three times,
and was about to turn away from the door, when
it was noiselessly opened by Harriet herself. She
held a shaded candle in her hand, which gave so
imperfect a light that Dallas could hardly see
her distinctly enough to feel certain that his
first impression, that she was looking very
pale and ill, was not an imagination induced by
the dim light. She asked him to come into the
sitting-room, and said she had just turned the
gas out, and was going to bed.

"I am sorry to have disturbed you," he said,