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It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to Mr. Elphick's chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that hour, but Elphick's door was closed fast enough. The night before it had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo's first knock, nor to his second, nor to his third.
Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo's eye, gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to begin. "Good evening, Mr. Kaye," said the barmaid. "You're first tonight." "Evening," said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and became silent.
This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in Spargo's mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor's surprise.
If you turn, for example, to Spargo's Life of Karl Marx you see that all through his career Marx struggled with the mere insurrectionists. It was the men without the Marxian vision of growth and discipline who were forever trying to lead little marauding bands against the governments of Europe.
"It's as full of mystery as as it could be. I want to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can make such a story of it as we haven't had for some time ages. Let me have it. And to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. I'll make it big!" The editor looked across his desk at Spargo's eager face. "Your other work?" he said. "Well in hand," replied Spargo.
And Spargo's first thought on taking all this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract anything out of those firmly-locked lips.
I can make a good excuse for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands " "Yes, yes!" said the proprietor, waving a hand. "Leave it entirely in Spargo's hands." "Keep me informed," said the editor. "Do what you think. It strikes me you're on the track." Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs.
The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo's room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of good Watchman money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself.
Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a vigorous and healthy appetite. Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo's possession of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect.
At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up there. Spargo's room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before going into any further particulars.
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