Rudyard Kipling 37 chambers overlooking the Thames. A pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three more to Torpenhow’s room. The well of the staircase disappeared into darkness, pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking and doors slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom. “Do they give you a free hand here?” said Dick, cautiously. He was Ishmael enough to know the value of liberty. “Anything you like; latch-keys and license unlimited. We are permanent tenants for the most part here. "Tisn’t a place I would recommend for a Young Men’s Christian Association, but it will serve. I took these rooms for you when I wired.” “You're a great deal too kind, old man.” “You didn’t suppose you were going away from me, did you?” Torpenhow put his hand on Dick’s shoulder, and the two walked up and down the room, henceforward to be called the studio, in sweet and silent communion. They heard rapping at Torpenhow’s door. “That’s some ruffian come up for a drink,” said Torpenhow; and he raised his voice cheerily. There entered no one more ruffianly than a portly middleaged gentleman in a satin-faced frockcoat. His lips were parted and pale, and there were deep pouches under the eyes. “Weak heart,” said Dick to himself, and, as he shook hands, “very weak heart. His pulse is shaking his fingers.” The man introduced himself as the head of the Central Southern Syndicate and “one of the most ardent admirers of your work, Mr. Heldar. I assure you, in the name of the syndicate, that we are immensely indebted to you; and I trust, Mr. Heldar, you won't