"You won't spring a 'latest' on me?" "Not unless the President of the Republic should be assassinated." "Right enough. But don't joke. Lord, there's something else to be done just now." The "setter up" appeared in the editor's rooms: "I want sharp type for 'one,' and eight lines for 'two.'" Discreetly, as a man accustomed to the business, Fandor withdrew on hearing the request of the "setter up," avoiding the searching glance of the sub-editor, who forthwith to meet the demands of the paging, called at random one of the reporters and passed on the order to him. "Some lines of special type; eight lines. Take up the Cretan question on the Havas telegrams. Be quick!" Fandor picked up his hat and stick and left the office. His berth as police-reporter meant a constantly active and unsettled existence. He was never his own master, never knew ten minutes beforehand what he was going to do, whether he might go home, start on a journey, interview a minister or risk his life by an investigation in the world of thugs and cut-throats. "Deuce take it!" he cried as he passed the office door and saw what the time was. "I simply must go to the courts, and it's already very late...." He ran forward a few paces, then stopped short. "And that porter murdered at Belleville!... If I don't cover that affair I shall have nothing interesting to turn in...." He retraced his steps, looking for a cab and swearing at the narrowness of the Rue Montmartre, where the inadequate pavements forced the foot passengers to overflow on to the roadway, which was choked with costermongers' carts, heavy motor-buses, and all that swarm of vehicles which gives a Paris street an air of bustle unequalled in any other capital in the world. As he was about to pass the corner of the Rue Bergère, a porter laden down with sample boxes, strung on a hook, ran into him, almost knocking him down. "Look where you're going!" cried the journalist. "Look out yourself," replied the man insolently. Fandor, with an angry shrug of his shoulders, was about to pursue his way, when the man stopped him. "Sir, can you direct me to the Rue du Croissant?" "Follow the Rue Montmartre and take the second turning to the right." "Thank you, sir; could you give me a light?" Fandor could not repress a smile. He held out his cigarette. "Here; is that all you want to-day?" "Well, you might offer me a drink." Fandor was about to answer sharply when something in the man's face seemed vaguely familiar. He was about sixty. His clothes were threadbare and green with age, his shoes down at the heels, his moustache and shaggy beard a dirty yellow. "Why the devil should I stand you a drink?" "A good impulse, M. Fandor." In a moment the man's features seemed to change. He appeared quite a different person and Fandor recognised who was speaking to him. Accustomed by long habit to conceal his impressions, the journalist spoke nonchalantly: "All right; let's go to the 'Grand Charlemagne.'"