"It's only ten o'clock now," said Henry, as though he were thinking aloud. He would never try to play Monte Cristo again, and Winton had told him that Mr. Springthorpe was never assiduous in his office attendance. "But I expect Mr. Yardley soon," the clerk continued. "Are you Mr. Charles?" "Yes. Shall I go to the reporters' room?" The clerk opened the door for him, and he entered on the scene of his future labours. A long table of plain wood, cut and hacked by knives on the edges, stood in the centre of the floor, and around it were four cane-chairs, all of different shapes. The floor was covered by worn-out oilcloth, the walls were dingy, the ceilings blistered like a water-biscuit. A single gasalier, carrying two burners, hung from the roof and served to light the table, on which lay a few bundles of copy-paper, two ink-pots, and some pens. The only other furniture in the room was a small bookcase half-filled with volumes, most of which were tattered, and some without binding, having reached that condition, not so much from frequent reference as from occasional use in a game wherein the reportorial staff tried to keep two books flying round the room from hand to hand without falling--a game that was never successful. A bundle of unopened newspapers, in postal wrappers, lay at the window-end of the table, and also a few letters. Presently the door was opened and Mr. Wilfrid Yardley, sub-editor, stepped in. He was a man of sallow complexion, with very black hair and dark, restless eyes that suggested worry. He wore a light yellowish summer suit and a straw hat. For a moment he paused on seeing Henry, who, as he entered, was examining the literary treasures in the bookcase. "Good morning!" he said. "You are Mr. Charles, I suppose?" and he held out his hand to Henry. "You are early. The reporters have no hours. I'm the only one on the literary staff who is chained to the desk." He took off his hat and jacket, exchanging the latter for a ragged thing that hung on one of the pegs along the wall. Then he seated himself at the end of the table, and commenced opening the newspapers that lay there. All the while his eyes flitted about in his head as if he feared that someone would pounce on him unawares. Evidently a quiet fellow and a conscientious worker, but a trifle too nervous to have much character. "Mr. Springthorpe has not fixed any work for you?" he said to Henry, with questioning eyebrows, while slitting an envelope. "No, nothing has been arranged. I suppose I'm to do anything that turns up."