For almost a year I had lived with this thing,
so close that its faults and its virtues had become indistinguishable to
me. Day and night, for many months, it had been in my mind. Of late some
instinct had prompted me to finish it. I had worked at it far into the
night, until I marveled that the ancient occupants of the surrounding
rooms did not enter a combined protest against the clack-clacking of my
typewriter keys. And now that it was gone I wondered, dully, if I could
feel Von Gerhard's departure more keenly.

No one knew of the existence of the book except Norah, Von Gerhard,
Blackie and me. Blackie had a way of inquiring after its progress in
hushed tones of mock awe. Also he delighted in getting down on hands and
knees and guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view
to having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription which would
inform admiring tourists that here was the desk at which the brilliant
author had been wont to sit when grinding out heart-throb stories for
the humble Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with my hero
and heroine, and his inquiries after the health of both were of such a
nature as to make any earnest writer person rise in wrath and slay him.
I had seen little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been devoted
to the work in hand. On the day after the book was sent away I was
conscious of a little shock as I strolled into Blackie's sanctum and
took my accustomed seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched
look about Blackie's nostrils and lips, I thought. And the deep-set
black eyes appeared deeper and blacker than ever in his thin little
face.

A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the city. June was going
out in a wave of torrid heat such as August might have boasted. The day
had seemed endless and intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and
languid. Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted Blackie's
debonair spirits.

"It has been a long time since we've had a talk-talk, Blackie. I've
missed you. Also you look just a wee bit green around the edges. I'm
thinking a vacation wouldn't hurt you."

Blackie's lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of his favorite pipe.
His eyes, that had been gazing out across the roofs beyond his
window, came back to me, and there was in them a curious and quizzical
expression as of one who is inwardly amused.

"I've been thinkin' about a vacation. None of your measly little two
weeks' af