hind curving up to Paradise. On either side of him, in place
of priceless works by old masters, were great tablets inscribed with
many names in gold characters. He scanned these tablets timidly, and at
length found what he wanted, 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent,' under the
heading 'Third Floor.' At the same moment a flunkey in chocolate and
cream approached him.

'Mr. Snyder?' asked Henry.

'Third-floor, left,' pronounced the flunkey, thus giving the tablets the
force of his authority.

As Henry was wafted aloft in the elevator, with the beautiful and
innocuous flunkey as travelling companion, he could not help contrasting
that official with the terrible Powellian caretaker who haunted the
Powellian stairs.

On the third-floor, which seemed to be quite a world by itself, an arrow
with the legend 'Mark Snyder, Literary Agent,' directed his mazed feet
along a corridor to a corner where another arrow with the legend 'Mark
Snyder, Literary Agent,' pointed along another corridor. And as he
progressed, the merry din of typewriters grew louder and louder. At
length he stood in front of a glassy door, and on the face of the door,
in a graceful curve, was painted the legend, 'Mark Snyder, Literary
Agent.' Shadows of vague moving forms could be discerned on the
opalescent glass, and the chatter of typewriters was almost
disconcerting.

Henry paused.

That morning Mr. Mark Snyder had been to Powells on the business of one
of his clients, a historian of the Middle Ages, and in the absence of
Sir George had had a little talk with Henry. And Henry had learnt for
the first time what a literary agent was, and, struck by the man's
astuteness and geniality, had mentioned the matter of _Love in Babylon_.
Mr. Snyder had kindly promised to look into the matter of _Love in
Babylon_ himself if Henry could call on him instantly with the
manuscript. The reason for haste was that on the morrow Mr. Snyder was
leaving England for New York on a professional tour of the leading
literary centres of the United States. Hence Henry's telegram to Dawes
Road.

Standing there in front of Mr. Snyder's door, Henry wondered whether,
after all, he was not making a fool of himself. But he entered.

Two smart women in tight and elegant bodices, with fluffy bows at the
backs of their necks, looked up from two typewriters, and the one with
golden hair rose smiling and suave.

'Well, you seem a fairly nice sort of boy--I shall be kind to you,' her
eyes a