We sat down and commenced our meal, while he, overflowing with spirits, told me how he had been out on an inquiry near to the _Welsh Harp_, spending a very pleasant afternoon there, and how he meant to "write it up" for the "mornings." The old instinct of the "liner" was still upon him, and on his littered table he always kept his agate stylus and oiled tissue, known as "flimsy," his "blacks" and his square of tin whereon to write. The sub-editors of the morning papers, the judges of next day's intelligence, could always rely on Dick Cleugh's "stuff," therefore they used it, and he profited at the rate of a penny farthing per line. He was, in brief, purveyor of sensations to the newspaper-reading public. "I'm going to take Lil out to-night," my companion said between mouthfuls of steak, for he was ravenously hungry. "Smart girl, Lil." "Yes," I answered. "She's really awfully nice. By Jove! old chap, I envy you." The Mystery Man smiled contentedly with a piece of meat poised gracefully on his fork, then he began humming the latest love-song which the barrel-organs had made popular, beating time with his fork, at the same time placing his hand upon his heart in true operatic style. This proceeding was, however, interrupted by the entrance of the Hag bearing a telegram for me. On opening it I found it contained only the one word "Come," signed by the initial "P." I tossed it across to my companion without comment, and as I did so was surprised to notice a strange, puzzled look upon his dark face. He glanced at it, then handing it back to me, exclaimed--"Wonder what's up at Kensington?" "Something unusual, or Patterson wouldn't have wired," I said. "You'll go, of course?" "Yes. I'll just see what it looks like, and if there's anything in it I'll let you know." "Well, old dawdler," he laughed, "if it's a good thing, leave a bit of the latest intelligence for me to pick up for my early edition to-morrow. To-night I can't disappoint Lily, you know. She's a good girl, and never worries." "I'll tell you all about it when I come back; then you can write up something in readiness for to-morrow. If it's a mystery my people won't touch it, you know." "Of course," he said. "Your staff is only paid to look pleasant." The mysterious telegram had come from the police headquarters at Kensington, an early intimation that something unusual had occurred. In years of reporting in London I had become friendly with many police inspectors and detectives, and had long ago made arrangements with some of them whereby they would send me a wire by day, or a line by boy-messenger at night with information of the latest "sensation." The reason why all were signed with initials was because such intimation was contrary to the order of the Chief Commissioner.