euse_.

CHAPTER VI

Denin hardly knew what to think of the telegram which came next
morning. It asked him to call at once on Mr. Sibley; but Denin, warned
that the manuscript story could not be read for a week or more, did not
dream that the publisher had already raced through it. His fear was
that a mere glance at the first page had been enough, showing the
skilled critic that the work lacked literary value; or else that the
bulk was insufficient to make a book. Mr. Sibley might, in kindness,
wish to end the author's suspense, and put him out of misery.

When the message arrived, Denin was reading and marking newspaper
advertisements. He meant to go without delay to several places of
business that offered more or less suitable work; but he was ready to
risk missing any chance, no matter how good, when the fate of his ewe
lamb was at stake. He was too despondent at the thought of its
rejection to plan placing it elsewhere, but he could not bear to lose
time in reclaiming it.

He felt, as he was led once more into Sibley's private office, as if he
had to face a painful operation without anesthetics, so sensitive had
he come to be on the subject of his story--the manuscript of his heart,
written in the blood of his sacrifice. There lay the familiar pages on
the desk, all ready, he did not doubt, to be wrapped up and handed back
to him. He had so schooled himself to a refusal that the publisher's
first words made his head swim. He could not believe that he heard
aright.

"Well, Mr. Sanbourne, I congratulate you!" Sibley said, getting up from
his desk-chair and holding out a cordial hand. "We congratulate
ourselves on the chance of publishing your book."

Denin took the hand held out and moved it up and down mechanically, but
did not speak. Following the publisher's extreme graciousness his
silence might have seemed boorish, but Sibley knew how to interpret it.
He realized that the other was struck dumb, and he felt a thrill of
romantic delight in the situation, in his own august power to confer
benefits. He was not conducting himself as a business man in this case,
but he knew by sureness of instinct that the strange amateur would take
no mean advantage of his confessed enthusiasm.

"We think," he went on, "that you have written something very original
and very beautiful. Without being sentimental, it's full of that kind
of indescribable sentiment which goes straight to the heart. It will be
a short book,