After lunch they parted in the Strand, John promising to take Smith the short story which he confessed he had written. It was now a quarter past three. He walked slowly down towards Fleet Street. Would Cane fulfill his promise and arrange his interview with Walsh? He particularly wanted to join the staff of the _Daily Post_. He had read it regularly at school. Three times they had published letters of his, and they had taken two articles. He found the Square, lying back from Fleet Street, in which the offices of the _Daily Post_ were situated. Through the swing doors he came to an enquiry office, and asked for Mr. Walsh. Had he an appointment? He thought so, through Mr. Cane. The uniformed attendant noted the fact on a slip of paper with John's name. He was then led into a small waiting-room. It was opposite the lift and contained a bare table and four chairs. The walls were hung with portraits of former editors and directors. John waited, standing. His heart was beating with suppressed anxiety; he felt he was on the fringe of things. A long wait, then a page boy asked him to follow. He entered the lift, rose several storeys, walked down a long white-bricked corridor, turned a corner and found himself in an oval hall, with several doors leading out of it. John was asked to wait. Behind one of these doors sat the great man. There was much coming and going of clerks, and possibly reporters. Half an hour dragged by. John stood up and paced the floor. Then three quarters of an hour, and still no summons. Through a glass door he could see a young man writing under a shaded light He tapped the door, and the writer came to him. "Is Mr. Walsh disengaged yet?" "I don't know--have you an appointment? What name?" John told him. The dark young man disappeared through another door. He came back in a few seconds. "Mr. Walsh is sorry, but he cannot see you." Dismay covered John's face. "But I have been kept--" "He is very busy to-day ." "Surely he knew that before?" "Perhaps--but he can't see you." "Then I shall sit here until he can." The young man smiled. "This office never closes," he said. "But that door opens," retorted John, nodding at a a door. It was a lucky guess. "His secretary won't let you in--it is quite useless, really." "We shall see," said John, now enjoying his obstinacy. A door close by opened, and a small clean-shaven man, of middle age with gold pince-nez, stood by listening to the debate. He suppressed a smile as he looked at the flushed youngster, then came forward. "What do you want?" he asked. "I want to see the editor, sir, and if he's a gentleman--he'll see me after waiting for him an hour." The man peered at him through his eye glasses. "I'm afraid he's not a gentleman, but you can see him." "Oh, thank you, sir." "Come along," he said and showed him into a large room littered with papers and books. He motioned John to a seat.