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Updated: May 21, 2025
No doubt, having been a newspaper man myself, I discounted the effect of the scare upon the public. I could imagine the delicate raillery of the other papers, if indeed they deigned to notice Lord Cholme's exclusive information at all. The special biography was as accurate as such biographies usually are. It was written in a fair imitation of Mr.
In America one's withers are unwrung by such scares. The "exclusiveness" of Lord Cholme's information, indeed, defeated his object. Lord Cholme, I knew, was loved neither in Fleet Street nor in Park Place. His ruthless competition with the news agencies, his capture of numerous cable-routes, had gradually divided England into two classes: those who read The Morning and those who didn't.
Lord Cholme's concern for the Empire seemed to leave him cold. "Humph!" he remarked and handed the paper to Mac, remaining lost in thought for a moment. "Ah!" he said at length. "That certainly accounts for him. But it doesn't say anything about the three green lights." "What green lights?" I asked, little thinking that I should see these same lights myself in the near future.
The drums and tramplings of Lord Cholme's organ had revealed nothing fresh. I understand now why my friends had merely mentioned the fact of its arrival and made no comment. After all, our real interest lay in the man, not in his aeroplane.
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