LITMIR.BIZ

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equipped with poise than man, it was she who spoke first.

      "I'm afraid I'm disturbing you."

      "No, no!" said Ashe. "Oh, no; not at all—not at all! No. Oh, no—not at all—no!" And would have continued to play on the theme indefinitely had not the girl spoken again.

      "I wanted to apologize," she said, "for my abominable rudeness in laughing at you just now. It was idiotic of me and I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry."

      Science, with a thousand triumphs to her credit, has not yet succeeded in discovering the correct reply for a young man to make who finds himself in the appalling position of being apologized to by a pretty girl. If he says nothing he seems sullen and unforgiving. If he says anything he makes a fool of himself. Ashe, hesitating between these two courses, suddenly caught sight of the sheet of paper over which he had been poring so long.

      "What is a wand of death?" he asked.

      "I beg your pardon?"

      "A wand of death?"

      "I don't understand."

      The delirium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burst out laughing. A moment later the girl did the same. And simultaneously embarrassment ceased to be.

      "I suppose you think I'm mad?" said Ashe.

      "Certainly," said the girl.

      "Well, I should have been if you hadn't come in."

      "Why was that?"

      "I was trying to write a detective story."

      "I was wondering whether you were a writer."

      "Do you write?"

      "Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?"

      "Never!"

      "You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It's a horrid little paper—all brown-paper patterns and advice to the lovelorn and puzzles. I do a short story for it every week, under various names. A duke or an earl goes with each story. I loathe it intensely."

      "I am sorry for your troubles," said Ashe firmly; "but we are wandering from the point. What is a wand of death?"

      "A wand of death?"

      "A wand of death."

      The girl frowned reflectively.

      "Why, of course; it's the sacred ebony stick stolen from the Indian temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoever possesses it. The hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog him and send him threatening messages. What else could it be?"

      Ashe could not restrain his admiration.

      "This is genius!"

      "Oh, no!"

      "Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle, and that patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wicked coincidences, solves the mystery; and there am I, with another month's work done."

      She looked at him with interest.

      "Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?"

      "Don't tell me you read him!"

      "I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm that publishes Home Gossip, and I can't help seeing his cover sometimes while I am waiting in the waiting room to see the editress."

      Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood's chum on a desert island.

       Here was a real bond between them.

      "Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades in misfortune—fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we be friends?"

      "I should be delighted."

      "Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves a little?"

      "But I am keeping you from your work."

      "An errand of mercy."

      She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like everything else, it may be an index to character. There was something wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this girl did it. She neither seated herself on the extreme edge of the easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did she wallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the week-end. She carried herself in an unconventional situation with an unstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire.

      Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, a girl in a first-floor front may be excused for showing surprise and hesitation when invited to a confidential chat with a second-floor front young man whom she has known only five minutes. But there is a freemasonry among those who live in large cities on small earnings.

      "Shall we introduce ourselves?" said Ashe. "Or did Mrs. Bell tell you my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?"

      "I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn't it?"

      "Good heavens, no! Surely you don't think anyone's name could really be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame. My real name is Marson—Ashe Marson. And yours?"

      "Valentine—Joan Valentine."

      "Will you tell me the story of your life, or shall I tell mine first?"

      "I don't know that I have any particular story. I am an

       American."

      "Not American!"

      "Why not?"

      "Because it is too extraordinary, too much like a Gridley Quayle coincidence. I am an American!"

      "Well, so are a good many other people."

      "You miss the point. We are not only fellow serfs—we are fellow exiles. You can't round the thing off by telling me you were born in Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?"

      "I was born in New York."

      "Surely not! I didn't know anybody was."

      "Why Hayling, Massachusetts?"

      "That was where I was born."

      "I'm afraid I never heard of it."

      "Strange. I know your home town quite well. But I have not yet made my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall. I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures."

      "How old are you?"

      "Twenty-six."

      "You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure? I think that is a shameful thing to say."

      "What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means of making a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories—an empire builder?"

      "How do you know it's your only means of making a living? Why don't you try something new?"

      "Such as?"

      "How should I know? Anything that comes along. Good gracious, Mr. Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, with chances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side."

      "I must be deaf. The only thing I have heard shrieking to me on every side has been Mrs. Bell—for the week's rent."

      "Read the papers. Read the advertisement columns. I'm sure you will find something sooner or later. Don't get into a groove. Be an adventurer. Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is."

      Ashe nodded.

      "Continue," he said. "Proceed. You are stimulating me."

      "But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? Surely London is enough to do it without my help? You can always find something new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my own resources about five years ago—never mind how. Since then I have worked in a shop, done typewriting, been on the stage, had a position as governess, been a lady's maid—"

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