greatest author living for less than £50. Gibberts, you're crazy."

Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had
never occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. It
would explain many things which had puzzled both himself and his
friends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at last
shook his head.

"No, Shorely," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not insane, though, goodness
knows, I've had enough to drive me mad. I don't seem to have the luck
of some people. I haven't the talent for going crazy. But to return to
the story. You think £50 too much for it. It will make the fortune of
the paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but the
point has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?"

"The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end."

"Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!"

Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands
together. His face was in a glow of excitement.

"Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man
a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it
actually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?"

"Naturally."

"Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I'm going to commit that
so-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I'm going down