ith a message that Mr. Fladgate would be happy to
see Mark at once, and so he followed upstairs and along passages with
glimpses through open doors of rooms full of clerks and desks, until
they came to a certain room into which Mark was shown--a small room
with a considerable litter of large wicker trays filled with proofs,
packets and rolls of manuscripts of all sizes, and piles of books and
periodicals, in the midst of which Mr. Fladgate was sitting with his
back to the light, which was admitted through windows of ground-glass.

He rose and came forward to meet Mark, and Mark saw a little
reddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curious
perpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobile
mouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner.

'How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?' he said heartily, using the _nom de
plume_ with an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up your
mind to entrust yourself to us, have you? That's right. I don't think
you'll find any reason to regret it, I don't indeed.'

Mark said he was sure of that.

'Well, now, as to the book,' continued Mr. Fladgate; 'I've had the
pleasure of looking through it myself, as well as Mr. Blackshaw, our
reader, and I must tell you that I agree with him in considering that
you have written a very remarkable book. As we told you, you know, it
may or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, my
opinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, to
ensure you a certain standing at once--at once.'

Mark heard this with a pang of jealousy. Long before, he had dreamed
of just such an interview, in which he should be addressed in some
such manner--his dream was being fulfilled now with relentless
mockery!

'But there is a risk,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'a decided risk, which
brings me to the subject of terms. Are you satisfied with the offer we
made to you? You see that a first book----'

'Excuse me for one moment,' said Mark desperately, 'I'm afraid you
imagine that--that _I_ wrote the book?'

'That certainly was my impression,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a humorous
light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and I
came to the not unnatural conclusion that Mr. Ashburn and Mr.
Beauchamp were one and the same. Am I to understand that is _not_ the
case?'

'The book,' said Mark--what it cost him to say this,--'the book was
written by a friend of mine, who went abroad some time ago.'

'Indee