Miss Leuilette was rather nettled; she liked Minter. "And what do you think of the new critics of _The Pilgrim_ type, Mr. Minter?" she asked. "They squirt venom from the attic into the gutter, and nobody is ever hurt." After which passage of arms he left the box, and the curtain went up on the Inn at Shepperford. After the play Gobion saw the ladies into their carriage, and Mrs. Picton, as she pressed his hand, whispered him to come to tea the next day. "I shall be quite alone," she said, with a side look. Then came the "copy shop" and a noisy supper, at which the latest sultry story of a certain judge's wife was repeated and enjoyed. It struck Gobion more than ever what a drunken, rakish lot these men were, but still he was very little better, only less coarse in his methods, and it didn't matter. Lucy, the barmaid, was in great form. Someone had given her a copy of _The Yellow Book_, with its strange ornamentation. "They do get these books up in a rum way now," she said, pointing to the figures blazoned on the cover. "You shouldn't find fault with that, my dear," he said. "The fig-leaf was the grandmother of petticoats"; and everyone roared. "Can anyone recommend me a new religion?" said a fat man who did sporting tips for _The Moon_. There was a yell at once. "Flintoff wants a new religion." "Theosophist!" "Absintheur!" "Jew!" "Mahomedan!" "Theosophist?" said the fat man; "no, I think not. Madame Blavatski was too frankly indecent. Absintheur might perhaps suit if it wasn't for Miss Marie Corelli. Jew is quite out of the question; there are two difficulties, pork and another. Mahomedan! well, that isn't bad. As many wives as you like--the religion of the henroost. Yes, I think I'll be a Mahomedan." "How about drinks?" said Gobion. "Oh, damn! Yes, I forgot that, I must stick to Christianity after all." He limped to the table to get a match. "What's the matter with your leg?" said Heath. "I hurt it last night going home in the fog." "You should try Elliman's--horse for choice." "I did, and I stank so of turpentine I was quite ashamed to lie with myself." "You're not ashamed to lie here," said some feeble punster. "No, it's my profession. I'm a sporting prophet." Gobion suddenly remembered that he had heard nothing about the mass of copy that had been sent out some days before. "Has Mr. Sturtevant been in to-night?" he asked the barmaid. "No, I haven't seen him for two or three days," she said. Gobion went quickly out into the Strand and walked to Sturtevant's rooms. The gas flamed on the dingy staircase, making a hissing noise in the silence, and shining on the white paint of the names above the door--Mr. Mordaunt Sturtevant, Mr. Thompson Jones, Mr. Gordon. The "oak" was open, so Gobion went in, pushing aside the swing door at the end of the little passage.