'No,' said Keller, looking at Winchester Cathedral. ''Might as well try to electrify a haystack. And to think that the _World_ would take three columns and ask for more--with illustrations too! It's sickening.' 'But the _Times_ might,' I began. Keller flung his paper across the carriage, and it opened in its austere majesty of solid type--opened with the crackle of an encyclopaedia. 'Might! You _might_ work your way through the bow-plates of a cruiser. Look at that first page!' 'It strikes you that way, does it?' I said. 'Then I'd recommend you to try a light and frivolous journal.' 'With a thing like this of mine--of ours? It's sacred history!' I showed him a paper which I conceived would be after his own heart, in that it was modelled on American lines. 'That's homey,' he said, 'but it's not the real thing. Now, I should like one of these fat old _Times_ columns. Probably there'd be a bishop in the office, though.' When we reached London Keller disappeared in the direction of the Strand. What his experiences may have been I cannot tell, but it seems that he invaded the office of an evening paper at 11.45 a.m. (I told him English editors were most idle at that hour), and mentioned my name as that of a witness to the truth of his story. 'I was nearly fired out,' he said furiously at lunch. 'As soon as I mentioned you, the old man said that I was to tell you that they didn't want any more of your practical jokes, and that you knew the hours to call if you had anything to sell, and that they'd see you condemned before they helped to puff one of your infernal yarns in advance. Say, what record do you hold for truth in this country, anyway?' 'A beauty. You ran up against it, that's all. Why don't you leave the English papers alone and cable to New York? Everything goes over there.' 'Can't you see that's just why?' he repeated. 'I saw it a long time ago. You don't intend to cable then?' 'Yes, I do,' he answered, in the over-emphatic voice of one who does not know his own mind. That afternoon I walked him abroad and about, over the streets that run between the pavements like channels of grooved and tongued lava, over the bridges that are made of enduring stone, through subways floored and sided with yard-thick concrete, between houses that are never rebuilt, and by river steps hewn, to the eye, from the living rock. A black fog chased us into Westminster Abbey, and, standing there in the darkness, I could hear the wings of the dead centuries circling round the head of Litchfield A. Keller, journalist, of Dayton, Ohio, U.S.A., whose mission it was to make the Britishers sit up. He stumbled gasping into the thick gloom, and the roar of the traffic came to his bewildered ears.