“Why yes,” said Evans, and then remembering his little subterfuge he added: “Don’t print anything unless it’s directly from the family. You understand me?” “I understand,” said the editor. “Riggles, the sub-editor will be in charge after this. I’m going home.” He wrote in a large hand upon a large sheet of paper: “No Repton items, not even Press Agency, except from the house itself. F. D.”--for his name was Francis Davis. “Take that to Mr. Riggles,” he said to the devil, and the two men went out together. Well knowing that Davis’ house lay in the extreme of the suburbs, and that he himself was going into the heart of Fleet Street, Evans offered to give his companion a lift. To his disgust it was accepted, and he was constrained to drive the editor of the _Capon_ to St. Paul’s Station; it lost him ten minutes, and those ten minutes were nearly fatal. For when he had got back at full speed to the offices of the _Moon_, the paper had gone to press. The machines were shaking and thundering away in the basement, and mile after mile of diffused culture was pouring out in a cataract to feed the divine thirst for knowledge. It seemed too late, but Evans went boldly through it all the same. The editor was gone, but to the sub-editor he sent in his card and wrote upon it “From the Prime Minister.” It was a time needing heroic measures. He asked to see an advance copy. The leader was Repton--Repton--Repton, nothing but Repton.... Repton had given away the wickedness of modern finance; Repton for purposes of his own was prepared to expose the mockery of our politics; Repton would tell them the truth about the Concessions; they had a promise of an interview with Repton. What motives might have caused Repton to act as he had done they could not determine. It was sufficient for them that Repton, etc.... The leader had a title, and the title of the leader was Repton. It had coined a new word: the word was “to Reptonise,” upon the model of “to peptonise.” The _Moon_ threatened to reptonise the whole of our public life. Evans spent about thirty seconds looking at the floor. “Can they stop the machines, Mr. Price?” he asked, for Price was the sub-editor’s name. “Yes,” said the sub-editor, “Why?” Evans walked to the window and looked out into the City street and said without showing his face: “Mr. Price, your proprietor is a very valued member of our party.” At the word “proprietor,” Mr. Price changed colour. Yet Evans had not meant the proprietor of Mr. Price, he had merely meant the proprietor of the _Moon_. “Mr. Price, I will tell you all” (and he told him more than all!). “Your proprietor left for Canada during the Easter Recess; he was taken ill in Montreal; he is on his way back, and he will be home next week.” Mr. Price nodded and at the same time inwardly admired the omniscience of the Government.