Mr.Thornden laid aside his tea-cup.
"I am a newspaper man, Mr.Thornden," said the young man, his eye roving about the room, visualizing everything, from the slices of lemon to the brilliant eyes of the valet.
"Ah! a pressman.

What will you be wanting to see me about, sir ?"--neither hostile nor friendly.
"Do you intend to remain long in America--incog ?" "Incog!" Mr.Thorndon leaned forward in his chair and drew down his eyebrow tightly against the rim of his monocle.
"Yes, sir.

I take it that you are Lord Henry Monckton, ninth Baron of Dimbledon." Master and man exchanged a rapid glance.
"Tibbets," said the master coldly, "you registered." "Yes, sir." "What did you register ?" "Oh," interposed the reporter, "it was the name Dimbledon caught my eye, sir.

You see, there was a paragraph in one of our London exchanges that you had sailed for America.

I'm what we call a hotel reporter; hunt up prominent and interesting people for interviews.