At the moment that this conversation was going on at Ashcliffe, the thoroughly conscientious man of whom they were speaking was seated in the back-parlor of a newspaper office in London. He had two companions, a man in a fair wig, and another in a black one. The wearer of the black wig, a large-limbed, long-faced, solemn-looking man, had just folded up some letters after perusal. "Well, Mr. Mist, what say you?" asked he, laying down the letters. "If you prefer to sever our connection, rather than engage to do as I wish, of course you are at liberty to do so. But unless you will keep measures with me, and be punctual in these things, I cannot serve you further, nor be concerned any more." "I really beg you not to name such a thing, Mr. De Foe!" replied Mist, bowing and nervously twisting a piece of paper. "I am your very humble servant in these matters--all of them; and I engage readily to conduct the _Journal_--Will you repeat your terms, Mr. De Foe?" "The Government, Mr. Mist, have treated you with lenity and forbearance," resumed De Foe,[5] oracularly. "They permit you to seem on the same side as before, to rally the _Flying Post_ as much as you please, and all the Whig writers, and even the word 'Whig;' and to admit any foolish trifling things in favor of the Tories, such as really can do them no good, nor the Government any harm." "Well, Mr. De Foe," said Mr. Mist, with a sigh, "that is liberty enough. I am resolved that my paper shall for the future amuse the Tories, but not affront the Government." "That, Mr. Mist," announced his dictator, "is the only way to keep yourself from a jail, and to secure the advantages which now rise to you from it; for you may be assured the complaint against you is so general that the Government can bear it no longer."[6] "Would you mind telling me from whom you speak, Sir?" Mr. Mist meekly wished to know. "I should mind it very much, Mr. Mist. Be satisfied that you have been spoken to--ay, and warned." Mr. Mist was fully convinced of that. "You will write, Mr. Mist, a declaration, full enough to satisfy the Government, of your intention to make no further attack upon them?" Mr. Mist would do anything he was told. The poor little mouse was entirely at the mercy of the lion. He withdrew to pen his declaration, and left the arch-conspirators together. "You see, Mr. Stevens, what difficulties we Government spies have to contend with!" sighed the author of _Robinson Crusoe_. "But you know that, of course, as well as I do." "'Bowing in the House of Rimmon,'" responded Stevens, with a peculiar smile. "I fancy the spies on the other side have their difficulties also." In which observation, though De Foe was completely unaware of it, Mr. Stevens was alluding to himself.