The world grew light and dizzy about him, as if the air had turned into millions of shimmering splinters. He managed to dress and get out to the nearest eating house, and for the first time in days he ordered hot coffee and a couple of eggs. After eating he felt better, but so tired and heavy that he crawled home and threw himself on his unmade bed; and there he slept dreamlessly for hours. When he woke he understood that he must have more food, and that the only way to get it was to try for a job. He felt too weak to think much more than that; but he gave himself another good meal, and the next day started out on his round. He went from one newspaper to another, was received either civilly or the reverse, was asked to state his qualifications, and saw his name and address taken down; but no one showed any interest in him, and he turned away hopeless from the last threshold. With no one to recommend him, and no past experience of newspaper work, what chance was there of his getting a job? The only alternative was Euphoria; but he was too disheartened to let his mind dwell on that.

There was just one other chance; that Mr. Frenside, in spite of his gruff sneering way, had not been unfriendly. He knew of Vance's aspirations, and perhaps would be willing to advise him—unless unfavourable rumours had reached him from Eaglewood. But Vance remembered Halo Spear's kindly glance when she took leave of him, heard her say: "Go now—but come back some day," and guessed that, however bent she was on screening her brother, she would not let Vance suffer unjustly. He had found out by this time that The Hour, as he had suspected, was a mere highbrow review, and therefore not to his purpose; but Frenside must have relations with the newspaper world, and would be able to tell him where there was hope of an opening for an untrained outsider. At any rate, it was the only thing left to try.

Chapter 4

The Hour was modestly housed on an upper floor of a shabby ex-private house; no noiseless lift, plate-glass doors or silver-buttoned guardians led to its threshold. But the typewriter girl in the outer office, who said, no, Mr. Frenside wasn't the editor, but only literary adviser, added that she guessed he was there that morning, and presently returned to show Vance into a stuffy cell full of cigar smoke where Frenside leaned on an ink-spattered table and fixed Vance with his unencouraging stare.

"Oh, yes—Weston your name is? Well, sit down."

He smoked and stared for a while; then he exclaimed: "By George, I saw you up at Eaglewood, didn't I? Why, yes—that business of the books… . Miss Spear'll be glad I've run across you. The books were found, she wanted you to know… ."