“I pity any woman who marries a journalist or a literary man,” he said mentally, as he considered possibilities one night over a cigar. “We writing folk may have our good points, but I think our chronic irritability more than outweighs them, to say nothing of our inconstancy where women are concerned, our ‘sketchiness,’ and our lack of mental balance. If I were a woman I would any day sooner marry a lawyer or a stockbroker than a man who earns his livelihood by his pen. Such people at any rate give their wives a sporting chance of being able to live with them in peace, whereas we news seekers and scribblers----” He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled as he mixed himself a brandy and soda. Yet even then he could not wholly dispel from his imagination the picture of Cora Hartsilver. Suddenly his telephone rang, and he unhooked the receiver. A fire had broken out in Smithfield and was making rapid headway--a big fire--steamers hastening to it from all directions--yes, half a column, but a column if possible--yes, not later than midnight---- He picked up his notebook and thrust it into his pocket, switched off the light and went downstairs. A taxi was passing as he reached the street, and he hailed it. “Yes,” he said, as he passed swiftly along Oxford Street, “a journalist’s wife must have a dog’s life!” Some days later the newspapers contained an interesting “story,” regarding a theft of diamonds some years previously in Amsterdam from a well-known diamond merchant whose place of business had then been situated in the Kalverstraat. The arrest of Archie La Planta in London in connection with the Agency Gang crimes had, it seemed, attracted the attention of the Amsterdam police, and among the people in England with whom they had communicated was a certain Major Guysburg. Eventually, the story ran, Major Guysburg had been called upon to identify two men still residing in Amsterdam, one of whom, it then transpired, had shared lodgings with La Planta at the time of the robbery, and had now turned King’s evidence, while the other had once been Alphonse Michaud’s secretary. After a good deal of legal quibbling, Michaud was proved actually to have stolen stones which he had himself insured, and for which, after the robbery, he had been paid his claim in full. On the night before their wedding--for finally Cora and Johnson and Yootha and Preston had decided to get married in London on the same day--the two happy couples with their best men, Hopford and Blenkiron, sat at supper in the grill of the Piccadilly. Not too near the band played the inevitable “Dardanella”; around them supper parties chattered and laughed loudly; waiters carrying dishes and wine hurried hither and thither as though their lives depended upon rapidity of action. Presently the manager approached, a broad smile on his pleasant face. He came up to Preston.