LITMIR.BIZ

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is lucrative.”

      His colorless eyes sought mine. “I only wanted to demonstrate that I was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a Repairer of Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain cases it would cost me more than I would gain by it. Today I have five hundred men in my employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an enthusiasm which possibly may be born of fear. These men enter every shade and grade of society; some even are pillars of the most exclusive social temples; others are the prop and pride of the financial world; still others, hold undisputed sway among the ‘Fancy and the Talent.’ I choose them at my leisure from those who reply to my advertisements. It is easy enough, they are all cowards. I could treble the number in twenty days if I wished. So you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations of their fellow-citizens, I have in my pay.”

      “They may turn on you,” I suggested.

      He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, and adjusted the wax substitutes. “I think not,” he murmured thoughtfully, “I seldom have to apply the whip, and then only once. Besides they like their wages.”

      “How do you apply the whip?” I demanded.

      His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes dwindled to a pair of green sparks.

      “I invite them to come and have a little chat with me,” he said in a soft voice.

      A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its amiable expression.

      “Who is it?” he inquired.

      “Mr. Steylette,” was the answer.

      “Come tomorrow,” replied Mr. Wilde.

      “Impossible,” began the other, but was silenced by a sort of bark from Mr. Wilde.

      “Come tomorrow,” he repeated.

      We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the stairway.

      “Who is that?” I asked.

      “Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in Chief of the great New York daily.”

      He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: “I pay him very badly, but he thinks it a good bargain.”

      “Arnold Steylette!” I repeated amazed.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Wilde with a self-satisfied cough.

      The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at him and snarled. He climbed down from the chair and squatting on the floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. The cat ceased snarling and presently began a loud purring which seemed to increase in timber as he stroked her.

      “Where are the notes?” I asked. He pointed to the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of manuscript entitled

      “THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA.”

      One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling, and although I knew all by heart, from the beginning, “When from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran,” to “Castaigne, Louis de Calvados, born December 19th, 1877,” I read it with an eager rapt attention, pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on “Hildred de Calvados, first in succession,” etc., etc.

      When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.

      “Speaking of your legitimate ambition,” he said, “how do Constance and Louis get along?”

      “She loves him,” I replied simply.

      The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me.

      “And Doctor Archer! But that’s a matter you can settle any time you wish,” he added.

      “Yes,” I replied, “Doctor Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin Louis.”

      “It is time,” he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the table and ran over the leaves rapidly.

      “We are now in communication with ten thousand men,” he muttered. “We can count on one hundred thousand within the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the state will rise en masse. The country follows the state, and the portion that will not, I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have been inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign.”

      The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, “A new broom sweeps clean.”

      “The ambition of Cæsar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their unborn thoughts,” said Mr. Wilde.

      “You are speaking of the King in Yellow,” I groaned with a shudder.

      “He is a king whom Emperors have served.”

      “I am content to serve him,” I replied.

      Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. “Perhaps Constance does not love him,” he suggested.

      I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from the street below drowned my voice. The twentieth dragoon regiment, formerly in garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the manoeuvres in Westchester County, to its new barracks on East Washington Square. It was my cousin’s regiment. They were a fine lot of fellows, in their pale blue, tight fitting jackets, jaunty busbys and white riding breeches with the double yellow stripe, into which their limbs seemed molded. Every other squadron was armed with lances, from the metal points of which fluttered yellow and white pennons. The band passed, playing the regimental march, then came the colonel and staff, the horses crowding and trampling, while their heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons fluttered from their lance points. The troopers, who rode with the beautiful English seat, looked brown as berries from their bloodless campaign among the farms of Westchester, and the music of their sabres against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines was delightful to me. I saw Louis riding with his squadron. He was as handsome an officer as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who had mounted a chair by the window, saw him too, but said nothing. Louis turned and looked straight at Hawberk’s shop as he passed, and I could see the flush on his brown cheeks. I think Constance must have been at the window. When the troopers had clattered by, and the last pennons vanished into South 5th Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out of his chair and dragged the chest away from the door.

      “Yes,” he said, “it is time that you saw your cousin Louis.”

      He unlocked the door and I picked up my hat and stick and stepped into the corridor. The stairs were dark. Groping about, I set my foot on something soft, which snarled and spit, and I aimed a murderous blow at the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters against the balustrade, and the beast scurried back into Mr. Wilde’s room.

      Passing Hawberk’s door again I saw him still at work on the armor, but I did not stop, and stepping out into Bleecker Street, I followed it to Wooster, skirted the grounds of the Lethal Chamber, and crossing Washington Park went straight to my rooms in the Benedick. Here I lunched comfortably, read the Herald and the Meteor, and finally went to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time combination. The three and three-quarter minutes which it is necessary to wait, while the time lock is opening, are to me golden moments. From the instant I set the combinations to the moment when I grasp the knobs and swing back the solid steel doors, I live in an ecstasy of expectation. Those moments must be like moments passed in Paradise. I know what I am to find at the end of the time limit. I know what the massive safe holds secure for me, for me alone, and the exquisite pleasure of waiting is hardly enhanced when the safe opens and I lift, from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest gold, blazing with diamonds. I do this every day, and yet the joy of waiting and at last touching again the diadem, only seems to increase as the days pass. It is a diadem fit for a King among kings, an Emperor among emperors. The King in Yellow might scorn it, but it shall be worn by his royal servant.

      I held it in my arms until the alarm on the safe rang harshly, and then tenderly, proudly, I replaced it and shut the steel doors.

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