elf off. I've
told you a hundred times it's expiation. We can't get round _that_."

"She must be mad, indeed," I said, "not to see."

"See? See?" he cried. "It's my belief, Simpson, that she hasn't
seen. She's been hiding her dear little head in the sand."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "she hasn't looked. She's been afraid to."

"Hasn't looked?"

"Hasn't read the damned things. She doesn't know how they expose
him."

"Then, my dear fellow," I said, "you've got to tell her."

"Tell her?" he cried. "If I told her she _would_ go and hang
herself. No. I'm not to tell her. I'm not to tell anybody. She's got
an idea that he's pretty well exposed himself, and, don't you see,
I'm to wrap him up."

"Wrap him up----"

"Wrap him up, so that she can't see, so that nobody can see.
_That's_ what I'm here for--to edit him, Simpson, edit him out of
all recognition. She hasn't put it to herself that way, but that's
what she means. I'm to do my best for him. She's left it to me with
boundless trust in my--my constructive imagination. Do you see?"

I did. There was no doubt that he had hit it.

"This thing" (he brought his fist down on it), "when I've finished
with it, won't be Wrackham: it'll be all me."

"That's to say you'll be identified with him?"

"Identified--crucified--scarified with him. You don't suppose they'd
spare me? I shall be every bit as--as impossible as he is."

"You can see all that, and yet you're going through with it?"

"I can see all that, and yet I'm going through with it."

"And they say," I remarked gently, "that the days of chivalry are
dead."

"Oh, rot," he said. "It's simply that--she's worth it."

Well, he was at it for weeks. He says he never worked at anything as
he worked at his Charles Wrackham. I don't know what he made of him,
he wouldn't let me see. There was no need, he said, to anticipate
damnation.

In the meantime, while it pended, publishers, with a dreadful
eagerness, were approaching him from every side. For Wrackham (what
was left of him) was still a valuable property, and Burton's name,
known as it was, had sent him up considerably, so that you can see
what they might have done with him. There had been a lot of
correspondence, owing to the incredible competition, for, as this
was the last of him, there was nothing to be said against the open
market; still, it was considered that his own publishers, if they
"rose" properly, should have the first claim. The