The managing editor of the New York Argus sat at his desk with a deep frown on his face, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows at the young man who had just thrown a huge fur overcoat on the back of one chair, while he sat down himself on another. 'I got your telegram, ' began the editor. 'Am I to understand from it that you have failed?' 'Yes, sir, ' answered the young man, without the slightest hesitation. 'Completely?' 'Utterly.' 'Didn't you even get a synopsis of the documents?' 'Not a hanged synop.' The editor's frown grew deeper. The ends of his fingers drummed nervously on the desk. 'You take failure rather jauntily, it strikes me, ' he said at last.