, with suppressed eagerness. "I
_will_ read it myself before handing it over to any one else."

The scarred face flushed; and again came that sudden light as from a
secret glitter of jewels. "I can't thank you enough!" Denin almost
stammered.

"Don't thank me yet. That would be very premature!" Sibley smiled
generously; but even if he had wished to do so, he couldn't have
patronized the fellow. "You mustn't be too impatient. I'm a busy man,
you know. I'll have a go at your manuscript as soon as I can, but you
mustn't be disappointed if you don't hear for a week or ten days. By
the way, you'd better give me a card with your name and address."

Denin laughed again, a singularly pleasant laugh, Sibley thought it. "I
haven't such a thing as a card! My name is--John Sanbourne. And if I
may have a scrap of paper, I'll write down my address. I forgot to put
it on the manuscript. I mayn't be at the same place when you're ready
to decide. But I'll tell them to forward the letter, and then I'll call
on you. I'd rather do that than let the story go through the post. I've
got--fond of it in a way--you see!"

Sibley did see. And the man being what he was, the fondness struck the
publisher as pathetic, like the love of Picciola for his pale
prison-flower. Reason told Sibley that the ten or twelve days work of
an amateur (one who had lived to thirty or so, without being moved to
write) would turn out mere twaddle. Yet instinct contradicted reason,
as it often did with Sibley. He had a strong presentiment that he
should find at least some remarkable points in the work of this scarred
soldier, whose square-jawed face seemed to the secretly romantic mind
of Sibley a mask of hidden passions.

Only a few times since he became head of the house had Eversedge Sibley
consented to see a would-be author whose fame was all to make. The few
he had received had been fascinating young women of society with
influence among his friends, famous beauties, or noted charmers; but he
had never taken so deep an interest in one of them as in the
poverty-stricken, steerage passenger. He went as far as the reception
room in showing his guest out; and then instead of going down to his
motor, which would be waiting for him, let it wait. He returned to his
office, and looked again at the address which the author had laid on
his parcel of manuscript.

"John Sanbourne!" Eversedge Sibley said to himself, aloud. The man's
face was as sincere as it was plain,