“Sir Archibald, George? Lo, he is here!” She flashed a quick glance to the piano as she added, “If only I had known you were about to enter, uncle, I would have treated you to a few crashing bars of stage-life entree-music.” “Go away with your nonsense!” laughed the old man. “Nonsense, indeed!” the girl laughed as merrily as the old man. Then, with a sudden, swift movement, she crossed to the piano, struck one sharp note upon it, and whispered in well-feigned hoarseness, “Slow music for the three conspirators as they retire to plot the destruction of London’s press, and the accumulation of untold millions by their own special journalistic production!” Her fingers moved over the ivory keys, and low, weird, creepy music filled the room with its eerie notes. Sir Archibald and George Carlyon fell in with the girl’s mood, and crept doorwards on tiptoe. “Number three,” hissed the girl. And Tom Hammond laughingly followed with the two other men. “She is a treat, is Madge!” laughed George Carlyon, as the three men passed through the doorway and made for the study-like room of Sir Archibald. CHAPTER II. “THE COURIER.” For two hours the three men held close conference together. At the end of that time all the preliminaries of the new venture were settled. Tom Hammond had explained his long-cherished views of what the ideal daily paper should be. Sir Archibald was delighted with the scheme, and, in closing with Hammond, gave him a perfectly free hand. “You were on the point of saying something about a striking poster to announce the coming paper, Mr. Hammond,” said the old baronet. “Yes,” Tom replied; “I think a great deal may be done by arresting the attention of the people—those in London especially. My idea for a poster is this: the name of the paper is to be ‘The Courier.’ Very well, let us have an immense sheet poster, first-class drawing, striking but harmonious colouring, and bold, arrestive title of the paper and announcement of its issue. Following the title, I would have in the extreme left a massive sign-post, a prominent arm of the structure bearing the legend ‘To-morrow.’ On the extreme right of the picture I would put another sign-post, the arm of which should bear the words ‘The Day After To-morrow.’ I would have a splendidly-drawn mounted courier, the horse galloping towards the right-hand post, having left ‘To-morrow’ well in the rear.” The old baronet exclaimed, “Rush the thing on! Flood the hoardings of London, Edinburgh, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Cardiff—all the large towns, and the smaller ones as well, if you can get hoardings big enough. Don’t study the expense, either in the get-up or in the issue of the picture. Don’t let the pill-sellers or cocoa or mustard people beat us.” The old man sprang to his feet and paced the floor, rubbing his hands, crying continually, “Good! good! We’ll wake old England up. We’ll——” “Toddle into lunch,” interrupted George Carlyon. “That’s the third summons we’ve had!”