revolver. Granice stared a moment at these oddly associated objects;
then he took the letter from under the string and slowly began to
open it. He had known he should do so from the moment his hand
touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that letter some
relentless force compelled him to re-read it.

It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of "The
Diversity Theatre." "MY DEAR MR. GRANICE:

"I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month,
and it's no use--the play won't do. I have talked it over with Miss
Melrose--and you know there isn't a gamer artist on our stage--and I
regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn't the
poetry that scares her--or me either. We both want to do all we can
to help along the poetic drama--we believe the public's ready for
it, and we're willing to take a big financial risk in order to be
the first to give them what they want. _But we don't believe they
could be made to want this._ The fact is, there isn't enough drama
in your play to the allowance of poetry--the thing drags all
through. You've got a big idea, but it's not out of swaddling
clothes.

"If this was your first play I'd say: _Try again_. But it has been
just the same with all the others you've shown me. And you remember
the result of 'The Lee Shore,' where you carried all the expenses of
production yourself, and we couldn't fill the theatre for a week.
Yet 'The Lee Shore' was a modern problem play--much easier to swing
than blank verse. It isn't as if you hadn't tried all kinds--"

Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the