unknown journalist. Now, at fifty..." He paused modestly and
made a little gesture, moving his fat hands outwards, away from
one another, and expanding his fingers as though in
demonstration. He was exhibiting himself. Denis thought of that
advertisement of Nestle's milk--the two cats on the wall, under
the moon, one black and thin, the other white, sleek, and fat.
Before Inspiration and after.

"Inspiration has made the difference," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith
solemnly. "It came quite suddenly--like a gentle dew from
heaven." He lifted his hand and let it fall back on to his knee
to indicate the descent of the dew. "It was one evening. I was
writing my first little book about the Conduct of Life--'Humble
Heroisms'. You may have read it; it has been a comfort--at least
I hope and think so--a comfort to many thousands. I was in the
middle of the second chapter, and I was stuck. Fatigue,
overwork--I had only written a hundred words in the last hour,
and I could get no further. I sat biting the end of my pen and
looking at the electric light, which hung above my table, a
little above and in front of me." He indicated the position of
the lamp with elaborate care. "Have you ever looked at a bright
light intently for a long time?" he asked, turning to Denis.
Denis didn't think he had. "You can hypnotise yourself that
way," Mr. Barbecue-Smith went on.

The gong sounded in a terrific crescendo from the hall. Still no
sign of the others. Denis was horribly hungry.

"That's what happened to me," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I was
hypnotised. I lost consciousness like that." He snapped his