Callan looked annoyed.

"I thought I'd got him pretty well. He's Hector Steele. In my
'Blanfield,'" he added.

"Indeed!" I said. I had never been able to read "Blanfield." "Indeed,
ah, yes--of course."

There was an awkward pause.

"The whiskey will be here in a minute," he said, suddenly. "I don't have
it in when Whatnot's here. He's the Rector, you know; a great temperance
man. When we've had a--a modest quencher--we'll get to business."

"Oh," I said, "your letters really meant--"

"Of course," he answered. "Oh, here's the whiskey. Well now, Fox was
down here the other night. You know Fox, of course?"

"Didn't he start the rag called--?"

"Yes, yes," Callan answered, hastily, "he's been very successful in
launching papers. Now he's trying his hand with a new one. He's any
amount of backers--big names, you know. He's to run my next as a
_feuilleton_. This--this venture is to be rather more serious in tone
than any that he's done hitherto. You understand?"

"Why, yes," I said; "but I don't see where I come in."