“That’s true,” mused Peter. “I spoke to Wilkinson, of Kingsley’s, myself. He advised me to try and get Landor’s. He thought that if I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people to give us theirs.”

“And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs provided you got Kingsley’s.”

“They will come,” thought hopeful Peter. “We are going up steadily. They will come with a rush.”

“They had better come soon,” thought Clodd. “The only things coming with a rush just now are bills.”

“Those articles of young McTear’s attracted a good deal of attention,” expounded Peter. “He has promised to write me another series.”

“Jowett is the one to get hold of,” mused Clodd. “Jowett, all the others follow like a flock of geese waddling after the old gander. If only we could get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy.”

Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. Jowett spent on advertising every year a quarter of a million, it was said. Jowett was the stay and prop of periodical literature. New papers that secured the Marble Soap advertisement lived and prospered; the new paper to which it was denied languished and died. Jowett, and how to get hold of him; Jowett, and how to get round him, formed the chief topic of discussion at the council-board of most new papers, Good Humour amongst the number.

“I have heard,” said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to Clorinda that filled each week the last two pages of Good Humour, and that told Clorinda, who lived secluded in the country, the daily history of the highest class society, among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; who they were, and what they wore, the wise and otherwise things they did—“I have heard,” said Miss Ramsbotham one morning, Jowett being as usual the subject under debate, “that the old man is susceptible to female influence.”

“What I have always thought,” said Clodd. “A lady advertising-agent might do well. At all events, they couldn’t kick her out.”

“They might in the end,” thought Peter. “Female door-porters would become a profession for muscular ladies if ever the idea took root.”

“The first one would get a good start, anyhow,” thought Clodd.

The sub-editor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a time, long ago, the sub-editor had succeeded, when all other London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain great statesman. The sub-editor had never forgotten this—nor allowed anyone else to forget it.

“I believe I could get it for you,” said the sub-editor.

The editor and the business-manager both spoke together. They spoke with decision and with emphasis.

“Why not?” said the sub-editor. “When nobody else could get at him, it was I who interviewed Prince——”

“We’ve heard all about that,” interrupted the business-manager. “If I had been your father at the time, you would never have done it.”

“How could I have stopped her?” retorted Peter Hope. “She never said a word to me.”

“You could have kept an eye on her.”

“Kept an eye on her! When you’ve got a girl of your own, you’ll know more about them.”