Joan walked calmly out with the box from Frasquet’s, took a cab, and drove to Woburn Place, where, in her own room, she dressed herself as Lady Henry had intended to be dressed. The frock and coat fitted sufficiently well, for Jordan and her mistress were somewhat of the same figure. An embroidered black veil, with one of chiffon underneath, completely hid her features; and, heavily perfumed with Lady Henry’s favourite scent, at precisely a quarter to eleven she presented herself at the office of _The Daily Beacon_. A gesture of a gloved hand towards the flaming gold on the coat was as if a password had been spoken. She was conducted to a private office on the first floor, and there received by a bearded, red-faced man, who sprang up on her entrance. "Well--well?" he demanded. The veiled and scented lady put her finger to her lips. "’Sh!" she breathed. Then, disguising her voice by whispering, she went on. "Russia China, and Japan have signed the alliance, in spite of England and France, whom they have defied very insolently, and it’s only a question of a short time before the storm breaks. There! That’s all, in a nutshell. I must run away at once." [Illustration: "’Sh!’ she breathed."] "A thousand thanks! You’re a brick!" Mr. Portheous pressed the gloved hand and left a cheque in it. "We shall go to press with this immediately." Joan glanced at the cheque, saw it was for seven hundred pounds, and despised Lady Henry for cheapening the market. Her waiting cab drove her a few streets farther on, to the office of _The Planet_. A card with the name of Miss Carthew, and "Important private business" scrawled upon it, was the "Open, sesame!" to Sir Edmund Foster’s door. "Have you your cheque-book handy?" she nonchalantly asked. "What for?" "_Quid pro quo._" Joan rushed into her whole story, which she told from beginning to end, proving its truth by showing Mr. Portheous’ cheque made out to Mrs. Anne Randall. "Lady Henry, no doubt, has an account somewhere under that name. She’s too sharp to use her own," added the girl. "Do you believe me now?" "Yes. You’re wonderful. I shall risk printing the news exactly as you have given it to me." "You won’t regret your trust. But I don’t want your cheque to-night. I’ll take it to-morrow, when I can say: ’I told you so.’" "Would you still like to come on our staff--at a salary of ten pounds a week?" "No, thank you, Sir Edmund. I’ve brought off my big _coup_, and anything more in the newspaper line would be, I fear, an anticlimax. Besides, I want to play with my fifteen hundred pounds." "What shall you do now?" "Go back to the house which has the honour of being my home, change my clothes, hurry breathlessly to South Audley Street, and inform Lady Henry that her costume can’t be found. She will then, in desperation, decide to send a note to _The Daily Beacon_, which, my prophetic soul whispers, she will order me to take." "Shall you go?"