He closed it, gummed it down, and waited. He had not ten seconds to wait. A young man who looked and was underfed, a gaunt tall young man with hair as long and as dank as the waving weeds of the sea, received him with immense solemnity. It was not often that affairs of State came his way. One such had come earlier in that very year. It had been the occasion of his lunching with the exalted individual who now sat before him, and he had never forgotten it. “Mr. Evans,” he said rather pompously, lifting his left hand and fixing two large burning, feverish eyes upon the secretary, “this place is the confessional. Anything you say shall be sacred ... absolutely sacred!” But Evans was cheery enough. “It’s nothing of any importance,” he said, “but, well, I’m a great friend of the Reptons.” “I know,” said the editor sympathetically, which was odd, for Evans only just knew the Reptons’ address from having to write them letters, and the Reptons only just knew the look of Evans’ face from having once had to ask him to a dinner of an official sort. “Well,” went on Evans unblushingly (how valuable are men of this kind!), “I am a great friend, especially of dear old Lady Repton--through my mother,” he added in an explanatory tone, “but I won’t go into that. The point is this: the whole family are really dreadfully concerned.” “I know, I know,” said the editor of the _Capon_, still most sympathetic, and most grave. “Well,” said Evans with affected ill-ease, “the fact is we don’t want anything said about it at all--nothing. That’s the simplest way, after all. It’s a great trouble. You really would do me a personal service, and they would be so grateful.” “By all means,” said the editor of the _Capon_. He turned to a speaking-tube upon his right and was about to pull out the whistle, when a violent blast blew that instrument at the end of its chain into his face. The editor expressed disgust, and when this expression was over, asked for the statement. The statement was brought. “They’re waiting for the machine, sir.” The editor ran his blue pencil down the list, made a little X against one item, and said: “Bring me a proof of that, will you?” A slip of proof came up: it was to the effect that Sir Charles Repton was to speak at the Wycliffite Congress and from his candid and vigorous action of the day before, both in the House and outside it, it was hoped that his address would act as a clarion call in the present crisis of religion. (“And it would!” thought Edward, all goose-flesh at the thought). “There’s no harm in that,” he said. Then with sudden thought: “What’s the leader about?” “The Concessions,” said the editor of the _Capon_, smiling. “Well,” said Evans, “we don’t agree about that, do we?” And he smiled back. “Shall I leave general orders about Repton items during the day?” said the editor.