He moved very slowly toward it, rather as if he did not wish to bring it
within his field of view. He stopped before reaching it and pivotted
slowly to face me.

"About my book," he opened suddenly, "I have so little time." His
briskness dropped into a half complaint, like a faintly suggested avowal
of impotence. "I have been at it four years now. It struck me--you
seemed to coincide so singularly with my ideas."

His speech came wavering to a close, but he recommenced it
apologetically--as if he wished me to help him out.

"I went to see Smithson the publisher about it, and he said he had no
objection...."

He looked appealingly at me. I kept silence.

"Of course, it's not your sort of work. But you might try.... You
see...." He came to a sustained halt.

"I don't understand," I said, rather coldly, when the silence became
embarrassing. "You want me to 'ghost' for you?"

"'Ghost,' good gracious no," he said, energetically; "dear me, no!"

"Then I really don't understand," I said.

"I thought you might see your ... I wanted you to collaborate with me.
Quite publicly, of course, as far as the epithet applies."