tell all and yet
never stop the action--these were agonising difficulties.

It took me nearly a fortnight to start that novel, sweating drops as of
blood at every fresh attempt. I must have written the first half volume
four times at the least. After that I saw the way clearer, and got on
faster. At the end of three months I had written nearly two volumes, and
then in good spirits I went up to London.

My first visit was to J. S. Cotton, an old friend, and to him I detailed
the lines of my story. His rapid mind saw a new opportunity. 'You want
_peine forte et dure_,' he said. 'What's that?' I said. 'An old
punishment--a beautiful thing,' he answered. 'Where's my dear old
Blackstone?' and the statute concerning the punishment for standing mute
was read to me. It was just the thing I wanted for my hero, and I was in
rapture, but I was also in despair. To work this fresh interest into my
theme, half of what I had written would need to be destroyed!

It _was_ destroyed, the interesting piece of ancient jurisprudence took
a leading place in my scheme, and after two months more I got well into
the third volume. Then I took my work down to Liverpool, and showed it
to my friend, the late John Lovell, a most able man, first manager of
the Press Association, but then editing the local _Mercury_. After he
had read it he said, 'I suppose you want my _candid_ opinion?' 'Well,
ye--s,' I said. 'It's crude,' he said. 'But it only wants sub-editing.'
Sub-editing!

I took it back to London, began again at the first line, and wrote every
page over again. At the end of another month the story had been
reconstructed, and was shorter by some fifty pages of manuscript. It had
drawn my heart's blood to cut out my pet passages, but they were gone,
and I knew the book was better. After that I went on to the end and
finished with a tragedy. Then the story was sent back to Lovell, and I
waited for his verdict.

My home (or what served for it) was now on the fourth floor of New
Court, in Lincoln's Inn, and one morning Lovell came purring and blowing
and steaming (the good fellow was a twenty-stone man) into my lofty
nest. He had re-read my novel coming up in the train. 'Well?' I asked,
nervously. 'It's magnificent,' he said. That was all the favourable
criticism he offered. All save one practical and tangible bit. 'We'll
give you 100_l._ for the serial right of the story for the _Weekly_'.

[Illustration: COMING UP IN THE TRAIN]

He offere