Smith (at the telephone).  Hallo, is that you, Jones? ...  Yes, it’s me.  Just come up a moment. (Puts down telephone and begins to open his letters.)

Enter Jones, his favourite sub-editor.  He is dressed quite commonly, and is covered with ink.  He salutes respectfully as he comes into the room.

Jones.  Good-afternoon, chief.

Smith.  Good-afternoon.  Have a cigar?

Jones.  Thank you, chief.

Smith.  Have you anything to tell me?

Jones.  The circulation is still going up, chief.  It was three million and eight last week.

Smith (testily).  How often have I told you not to call me “chief,” except when there are ladies present?  Why can’t you do what you’re told?

Jones.  Sorry, sir, but the fact is there are ladies present.

Smith (fingering his moustache).  Show them up.  Who are they?

Jones.  There is only one.  She says she’s the lady who has been writing our anonymous “Secrets of the Boudoir” series which has made such a sensation.

Smith (in amazement).  I thought you told me you wrote these.

Jones (simply).  I did.

Smith.  Then why—­

Jones.  I mean I did tell you.  The truth is, they came in anonymously, and I thought they were more likely to be accepted if I said I had written them. (With great emotion.) Forgive me, chief, but it was for the paper’s sake. (In matter-of-fact tones.) There were one or two peculiarities of style I had to alter.  She had a way of—­

Smith (sternly).  How many cheques for them have you accepted for the paper’s sake?

Jones.  Eight.  For a thousand pounds each.

Smith (with tears in his eyes).  If your mother were to hear of this—­

Jones (sadly).  Ah, chief, I have never had a mother.

Smith (slightly put out, but recovering himself quickly).  What would your father say, if—­

Jones.  Alas, I have no relations.  I was a foundling.

Smith (nettled).  In that case, I shall certainly tell the master of your workhouse.  To think that there should be a thief in this office!

Jones (with great pathos).  Chief, chief, I am not so vile as that.  I have carefully kept all the cheques in an old stocking, and—­

Smith (in surprise).  Do you wear stockings?

Jones.  When I bicycle.  And as soon as the contributor comes forward—­

Smith (stretching out his hand and grasping that of Jones).  My dear boy, forgive me.  You have been hasty, perhaps, but zealous.  In any case, your honesty is above suspicion.  Leave me now.  I have much to think of. (Rests his head on his hands.  Then, dreamily.) You have never seen your father; for thirty years I have not seen my wife. ...  Ah, Arabella!

Jones.  Yes, sir. (Rings bell.)

Smith.  She would split her infinitives. ...  We quarrelled. ...  She left me. ...  I have never seen her again.