ow a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't
you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"

Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his
trousers' pockets.

"It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my
attention a moment ago to its type-written character."

"Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into
melancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anything
unusual in it--purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?"

"There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too
much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man
could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It's
absurd."

Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly.
Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long
ulster making him look taller than he really was.

"Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that
would have kept me from want has----"

"Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.
To me several times."

"How my cousin cheated me out of----"

"Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved."

"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the
other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his
head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was
finally broken by Gibberts saying--

"So you don't care about the story?"

"Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with
an imaginary and sanguinary ending."

"Oh, you saw that, did you?"

"Yes. How much do you want for it?"

"L50."

"What?"

"L50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now."

"Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the
greatest author living for less than L50. 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 L50 to