r now to
run off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on the
press. I never read the _Sponge_ myself, so I thought I would drop
in and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural.

"Better read the paper and find out," said Shorely.

"I would, if there wasn't so much of your stuff in it," retorted
McCabe.

Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. He
had a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely,
who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer
to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope
of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there.

"He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday,
and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand,
buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. I
asked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and he
told me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me as
so accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away without
making further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, you
should look after him."

Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousness
regarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelist
meditated some wild action, which might involve others in a
disagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory either
before or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and there
found Gibberts' belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, and
the reading of it completely banished what little self-control he had
left.

"Dear Shorely,--I know why you want to see me, but I have so many
affairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you.
However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without any
goading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication of
the story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. I
leave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound of
flesh, and more.--Yours,

"BROMLEY GIBBERTS."

Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished this
scrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a
hansom, he said--

"Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15."

Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at
Gib