lodging free."

"Would that be any change?" questioned Benson.

"The quality would," retorted the other. "The address also would not be
good. Seriously, Jem, will you let me have the fifteen hundred?"

"No," said the other, simply.

Carr went white. "It's to save me from ruin," he said, thickly.

"I've helped you till I'm tired," said Benson, turning and regarding him,
"and it is all to no good. If you've got into a mess, get out of it.
You should not be so fond of giving autographs away."

"It's foolish, I admit," said Carr, deliberately. "I won't do so any
more. By the way, I've got some to sell. You needn't sneer. They're
not my own."

"Whose are they?" inquired the other.

"Yours."

Benson got up from his chair and crossed over to him. "What is this?"
he asked, quietly. "Blackmail?"

"Call it what you like," said Carr. "I've got some letters for sale,
price fifteen hundred. And I know a man who would buy them at that price
for the mere chance of getting Olive from you. I'll give you first
offer."