he stubborn ass. He knew that it was
luck, not cleverness.

His guest, unconscious of all this emotion, aimlessly drew headlines
high up in the air. "'Zoe mystery solved. Selfish swine discovered.
Hubert Brett the author.' All that sort of stuff," he said, chuckling
at his own journalistic readiness. "Oh yes, he does matter. Dam
unpleasant for him."

"Well, I suppose so," answered Thomas Blatchley with resignation. "Ah,
here's the chucker-out!" He pointed facetiously towards the splendid
person now close on them. "We must go."

"A very pleasant evening, Blatchley old boy," his guest murmured
without rancour, as he got up with excessive dignity and walked, grimly
intent, towards the door. He was not drunk. Just genial....

As he undressed that night, he laughed suddenly, aloud. That swine
Blatchley had thought he was going to pump him and in the end he had
done nothing except pay the bill! Betray Helena, dear little girl?
Not he!

He fell asleep, chuckling and with one sock on. People said artists
were dam fools, but he had scored off a business man and got the better
of a publisher....

As to Thomas Blatchley, he was far more calm. Success had long ago
become a habit. He merely felt a little scorn for Geoffrey Alison.

This was by no means his first good stroke of business over two
glasses--one full and one empty--of champagne. He was not a believer
in mere whisky: stale, and not making towards confidence. No, a good
dinner and then, at the end, quite conversational; "You know, your
books don't get one half the booming they deserve. You made a mistake
in not coming to _me_! I'd make an offer now; I would have long ago,
if it was only cricket. And even now, old man, if ever...."

Of course it ran one into money. To-night, no doubt, had run him
generously into double figures: but what might that sum not produce in
interest? Business was bound to be expensive. You either went about
or else you sat in a huge office. He merely spent on drinks what other
publishers spent on glass-doors.

He wished, as he got comfortable for a well-earned night's rest, it had
been some one better known than Hubert Brett.

CHAPTER XXI

EXPOSURE

"Both for you, sir!" said Lily with the air of an old friend, entering
the drawing-room at nine o'clock two evenings later. She held out on a
silver tray, the wedding gift of Kenneth Boyd, two letters. One was
from Ruth and had been left, now, by the post