big price, and you need not commit the crime."

"Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you would
offer me £12 10_s_. Will you publish it within the month?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Write out the cheque. Don't cross it. I've no bank
account."

When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket-
pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good-
bye," he said.

As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it
flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under
circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.

The _Sponge_ was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the
week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As
Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had
done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.

Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and
at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was
particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson's
opinion was infallible.

"How did _you_ come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with
unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.