"Mr. Steylette," was the answer.

"Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde.

"Impossible," began the other, but was silenced by a sort of bark from
Mr. Wilde.

"Come to-morrow," he repeated.

We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the
stairway.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in Chief of the great New York
daily."

He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: "I pay him very
badly, but he thinks it a good bargain."

"Arnold Steylette!" I repeated amazed.

"Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough.

The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at
him and snarled. He climbed down from the chair and squatting on the
floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. The cat ceased
snarling and presently began a loud purring which seemed to increase in
timbre as he stroked her. "Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to
the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of