A quarter of an hour later, Eleanor was standing outside Mr Carver’s office, evidently seeking a companion. From the bright flush on her face and the sparkle in her eyes, hope—and a strong hope—had revived. She stood there, quite unconscious of the admiration of passers-by, sweeping the street in search of her quest. Presently the object she was seeking came in view. He was a tall man, of slight figure, with blue eyes deeply sunk in a face far from handsome, but full of intellectual power and great character; a heavy, carelessly trimmed moustache hid a sensitive mouth, but did not disguise a bright smile. That face and figure was a famous one in London, and people there turned in the busy street to watch Jasper Felix, and admire his rugged powerful face and gaunt figure. He came swinging down the street now with firm elastic step, and treated Eleanor to one of his brightest smiles. ‘Did you think I had forgotten you?’ he said. ‘I have been prowling about Gray’s Inn Road, for, sooth to say, the air of Bedford Row does not agree with me.’ ‘I hope I have not detained you,’ said Eleanor timidly; ‘I know how valuable your time is to you.’ ‘My dear child, don’t mention it,’ replied the great novelist lightly; ‘my time has been well occupied. First, I have been watching a fight between two paviors. Do you know it is quite extraordinary how those powerful men can knock each other about without doing much harm. Then I have been having a long chat with an intellectual chimney-sweep—a clever man, but a great Radical. I have spent quite an enjoyable half-hour.’ ‘A half-hour! Have I been so long? Mr Felix, I am quite horrified at having taken up so much of your time.’ ‘Awful, isn’t it,’ he laughed lightly. ‘Well, you won’t detain me much longer, for here you are close at home.—Now, I will just run into Fleet Street on my own business, and try and sell this little paper of your husband’s at the same time. I’ll call in this afternoon; only, mind, you must look as happy as you do now.’ Jasper Felix made his way through a court into Holborn, and along that busy thoroughfare till he turned down Chancery Lane. Crossing the street by the famous _Griffin_, he disappeared in one of the interminable courts leading out of Samuel Johnson’s favourite promenade, Fleet Street. The object of his journey was here. On the door-plate was the inscription, ‘The _Midas Magazine_,’ and beneath the legend, ‘First Floor.’ Ascending the dingy stair, he stopped opposite a door on which, in white letters, was written the word ‘Editor.’ At this door he knocked. It was not the timid rap of a literary aspirant, but the important tap of a man who knew that he was welcome. Without pausing for a reply, he pushed open the door. ‘How de do, Simpson?’ said Mr Felix, with a look of amusement in his blue eyes. ‘Glad to see you, Felix,’ said the editor of the _Midas_ cordially. ‘I thought you had forgotten us. I hope you have something for our journal in your pocket.’