"Here are the books," he said, when he got in. "Better put 'em where you'll have your hand on 'em--once you lose sight of a thing in this mess you can say good-bye to it. That blessed latchkey of mine hasn't turned up yet. Well, shall we get work over first and then talk a bit?" He swept aside with his arm a heap of new shirts and collars and tissue-paper, took a writing-pad from the drawer of his table, and then looked round for something from which to read aloud. I produced from my pocket a newspaper, which I tossed over to him. I also had cleared a portion of the table for myself and was sharpening a pencil. My pad lay before me. He was taking his watch from the guard. "Do I read first?" he asked, opening the newspaper. "Right-oh. Say when you're ready." I drew up my chair. "Right," I said. And in his rapid, clear, high-pitched voice he began to read. It was the speech of some politician or other he read, and my pencil flew over the paper, swiftly taking down. Page after page I wrote, and I had almost forgotten that I was engaged on anything more than an ordinary exercise when suddenly he called "Time!" I stopped, and took a long breath. "Now transcribe," he said. "You'll find paper under those gloves." "No," I said. "You take down now. Saves time. Transcribing's the slow part, and we can both be doing that together." "All right," he said, passing over the paper and making ready. "Right? Go," I said. And I began in my turn to read. He had given me a continuous speech, but I gave him the Police Column. "Big Blaze in Bermondsey: Suspected Arson," I gave him. ("That chap'll get a couple of years for that," he interdicted). And then I passed to "Alleged Bucket-shop Frauds." I had already got my paper from my breast-pocket, that paper I had compiled in the reading-room of the British Museum.... "--bail being granted in two sums of £500," I concluded the bucket-shop paragraph and went on without pause:-- "PATHETIC CONFESSION" "At Marlborough Street yesterday Rose Baxter, 24, seamstress, living in Osnaburgh Street, was charged before Mr Siddeley with a determined attempt to commit suicide by hanging herself in a shed adjoining her dwelling, the property of Messrs Wright, Knapton & Co. The beginning of the case was reported in _The Argus_ of 24th June. Inspector Woodhead read aloud a letter purporting to be in the prisoner's handwriting, from which we take the following." ("Cheerful subjects you choose, I must say," commented Archie, _sotto voce_.) "'Dearest mother, I cannot face the disgrace. I hope you will forgive me for the trouble I am bringing on you. I have put it off as long as possible, hoping things would get better, but there is only one end to it." ("Kid, eh?" murmured Archie, writing.)