Perkins sniffed disdainfully.

"Druggists?" he exclaimed with disgust. "Mystery! Blood! 'The Crimson
Cord.' Daggers! Murder! Strangling! Clues! 'The Crimson Cord'--"

He motioned wildly with his hands as if the possibilities of the phrase
were quite beyond his power of expression.

"It sounds like a book," I suggested.

"Great!" cried Perkins. "A novel! The novel! Think of the words 'A
Crimson Cord' in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!" He
pulled his hat over his eyes and spread out his hands, and I think he
shuddered.

"Think of 'A Crimson Cord,'" he muttered, "in blood-red letters on a
ground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing through
them like a serpent."

He sat up suddenly and threw one hand in the air.

"Think," he cried, "of the words in black on white with a crimson cord
drawn taut across the whole ad!"

He beamed upon me.

"The cover of the book," he said quite calmly, "will be white--virgin,
spotless white--with black lettering, and the cord in crimson. With each
copy we will give a crimson silk cord for a book-mark. Each copy will be