“My love,” he said, “I promised Hexter I would meet him to-night at the Five A's Club, to arrange about salary and so forth. I'll be gone only an hour. Can you do without me that long?” “Yes, go; and don't let him have you for less than fifty dollars a week.” Shortly after midnight the dramatic editor of that newspaper Miss Jones daily lent to Mrs. Mogley, having sent up the last page of his notice of the new play at Palmer's, was confronted by the office-boy ushering to the side of his desk a tall, spare, smooth-faced man with a sober countenance, an ill-concealed manner of being somewhat over-awed by his surroundings, and a coat frayed at the edges. “I'm Mr. Thomas Mogley,” said this apparition. “Ah! Have a cigarette, Mr. Mogley?” replied the dramatic editor, absently, lighting one himself. “Thank you, sir. I was this evening, but am not now, the leading comedian of the company that played Wilkins's 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre. I played Mephisto.” (He had begun his speech in a dignified manner, but now he spoke quickly and in a quivering voice.) “I was a failure--a very great failure. My wife is extremely ill. If she knew I was a failure, it would kill her, so I told her I made a success. I have really never made a success in my life. She is sure to read your paper to-morrow. Will you kindly not speak of my failure in your criticism of the performance? She cannot live later than to-morrow morning, and I should not like--you see--I have never deigned to solicit favours from the press before, sir, and--” “I understand, Mr. Mogley. It's very late, but I'll see what I can do.” Mogley passed out, walking down the five flights of stairs to the street, forgetful of the elevator. The dramatic editor looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve,” he said; then, to a man at another desk: “Jack, I can't come just yet. I'll meet you at the club. Order devilled crabs and a bottle of Bass for me.” He ran up-stairs to the night editor. “Mr. Dorney, have you the theatre proofs? I'd like to make a change in one of the theatre notices.” “Too late for the first edition, my boy. Is it important?” “Yes, an exceptional case. I'll deem it a personal favour.” “All right. I'll get it in the city edition. Here are the proofs.” “Let's see,” mused the dramatic editor, looking over the wet proofs. “Who covered the ---- Theatre to-night? Some one in the city department. I suppose he 'roasted' Gugley, or whatever his name is. Ah, here it is.” And he read on the proof: