I walked along to Wellington Street, where I called in to see my friend Crutchley, one of the sub-editors of the _Morning Post_, who had just come on duty and was preparing for his night's work. In the offices of the morning papers activity begins when tired London takes her ease, for their night is as day, until at dawn the staff, weary after hours of work by electric light in stifling rooms, go forth chilled and jaded to their homes to sleep while the world works. For half an hour I sat in his den, where the table was already piled with telegrams and flimsy, while he, with coat off, shirt-cuffs turned up, and a cigarette in his mouth, sighed, sharpened his big blue pencil, and, as he chatted, commenced to "slaughter" wordy descriptions by too eloquent reporters. The world wants news, not "gas," is the motto of every working sub-editor. The public prefer facts without "padding," and to cut out the latter is the duty of the man who, from the sub-editorial chair, decides upon what shall appear and what shall be omitted, a duty which requires the greatest care and judgment. When I left him I recollected that Dick had gone to some place down in Essex for the _Comet_, and would not return to eat the diurnal steak in company. Therefore I wandered aimlessly along the Strand, and turned into a restaurant, afterwards spending the evening at the theatre. Nearly three weeks went by and I heard nothing of Boyd, although I had written to him. At nearly ten o'clock one night, however, when I had returned to Grey's Inn alone, I found the detective standing in the half-light against the mantelpiece. "Bad luck the other night," he said, after we had exchanged greetings. "What, didn't you follow him?" I cried, surprised. "No, that's the devil of it," he exclaimed in a tone of bitter disappointment, sinking into a chair. "You'll remember that that platform at Ludgate Hill is an island one, and just as I got through the barrier a train on the other side was moving off to Snow Hill and Moorgate Street, while one to Blackheath was just on the point of starting in the opposite direction. I, of course, jumped into the latter, feeling sure he'd be going out of town." "And you found out your mistake too late?" "I examined all the carriages at Loughborough Junction, but there was no sign of him. He evidently took the other train." "Unfortunate," I answered, then sat for a few moments in calm reflection. "Unfortunate!" he echoed. "It's more than that. We seem foredoomed to failure in this affair. I've had three men on the job ever since, but with no result. Even the `narks' know nothing. But," he added, "when I pointed him out you seemed to know him. Am I right?"