So deeply versed was he in worldly knowledge, so thoroughly had he gauged the critic, the journalist, and the public, that before he unfolded a newspaper he could usually foresee the length, the nature, and the literary merit of the criticism. He knew that the tendency of the age is to acquire as much knowledge as possible in a short time. He looked upon the world as a huge kindergarten, and the Commentator as its school-book. It was good that the world's knowledge of its own geography should be extended, but the world must not be allowed to detect the authority of the usher's voice. There are a lot of people who, like women at a remnant sale, go about the paths of literature picking up scraps which do not match, and never can be of the slightest use. It was John Craik's business to set out his remnant counter to catch these wandering gleaners, and Eve sent him her wares by a lucky chance at the moment when he wanted them. The editor of the Commentator was sitting in his deep chair before the fire one morning about eleven o'clock, when the clerk, whose business it was to tell glib lies about his chief, brought him a card. "Lloseta," said Craik aloud to himself. "Ask him to come up." "The man who ought to have written the Spanish sketches," he commented, when the clerk had left. The Count came into the room with a certain ease of manner subtly indicative of the fact that it was not the first time that he had visited it. He shook hands and waited until the clerk had closed the door. There was a copy of the month's Commentator on the table. De Lloseta took it up and opened it at the first page. "Who wrote that?" he asked, holding out the magazine. Craik laughed--a sudden boyish laugh--but he held his sides the while. "You not only beard the lion in his den, but you ask him to tell you the tricks of his trade," he said. "Sit down, all the same. You don't mind my pipe, do you?" The Spaniard sat down and sought a cigarette-case in his waistcoat pocket with a deliberation that made his companion fidget in his chair. "You asked me to write those sketches," said the Count pleasantly. "I delayed and you gave the order to some one else. Assuredly I have a certain right to ask who my supplanter is." "None whatever, my dear Lloseta. I did not give the order for those sketches--they came." "From whom?" "Ah!" "You will not tell me?" "My dear man, I cannot. The smell of printing ink is not good for a man's morals. Leave me my unsullied honour." The Count had lighted his cigarette. He looked keenly at his companion's deeply-lined face, and the blue smoke floated between them. "There are not many people who could have written that article," he said. "For the few English who know Spain like that are known to the natives. And no Spaniard would have dared to write it." John Craik laughed, and while he was laughing his eyes were grave and full of keen observation. "Then you admit that it is true," he said.