London
May 19th, 1896

“Shadowy conspiracies, oriental assassins, death-defying adventurism?… Hogwash and poppycock!”

Sir Anthony Dripsheath, the jowly editor of the Daily Vestibule, tosses Montague-Fipps’ notes across his desk. RMF steadies himself with a sip of brandy.

“You’re a fine reporter Reginald,” Sir Anthony continues, “but enough of these wild-goose chases! The Vestibule’s readership expects accurate accounts of true events. I wont sully our pages with this stuff of penny dreadfuls, and that’s that.”

Another bracing sip does nothing to hold Montague-Fipps’ tongue.

“The Vestibule’s readership is more interested in the society pages’ illustrations of bare-ankled French ladies! And you’ve no shame in delivering that filth!”

“How dare you!”

“Deny it then! I’ll take my story elsewhere Sir Anthony. Good day to you and good day to your precious Vestibule.”

With RMF departed Sir Anthony scribbles a note for the telegram office -
IT IS DONE. DAMN YOU FOR COSTING ME MY BEST MAN BUT IT IS DONE.