a genius.' It really plays the devil with me."

He walked excitedly about the library, flourishing a cigar and
scattering the ash about the carpet. I am pernicketty in a few ways and
hate tobacco ash on my carpet; every room in the house is an arsenal of
ash trays. In normal mood Adrian punctiliously observed the little laws
of the establishment. This scattering of cigar ash was a sign of
spiritual convulsion.

"Have you explained the matter to Doria?" I asked.

He halted before me performing his new uncomfortable trick of slithering
thumb over finger tips.

"No," he snapped. "How can I?"

I replied, mildly, that it seemed to be the simplest thing in the world.
He broke away impatiently, saying that I couldn't understand.

"All right," said I, though what there was to understand in so
elementary a proposition goodness only knows. I was beginning to resent
this perpetual charge of non-intelligence.

"I think we had better clear out," he said. "I'm only a damned nuisance.
I've got this book of mine on the brain"--he held up his head with both
hands--"and I'm not a fit companion for anybody."

I adjured him in familiar terms not to talk rubbish. He was here for the
repose of country things and freedom from day-infesting cares. Already
he was looking better for the change. But I could not refrain from
adding:

"You wrote 'The Diamond Gate' without turning a hair. Why should you
worry yourself to death about this new book?"

When he answered I had the shivering impression of a wizened old man
speaking to me. The slight cast I had noticed in his blue eyes became
oddly accentuated.

"'The Diamond Gate,'" he said, peering at me uncannily, "was just a
pretty amateur story. The new book is going to stagger the soul of
humanity."

"I wish you weren't such a secretive devil," said I. "What's the book
about? Tell an old friend. Get it off your mind. It will do you good."

I put my arm round his shoulders and my hand gave him an affectionate
grip. My heart ached for the dear fellow, and I longed, in the plain
man's way, to break down the walls of reserve, which like those of the
Inquisition Chamber, I felt were closing tragically upon him.

"Come, come," I continued. "Get it out. It's obvious that the thing is
suffocating you. I'll tell nobody--not even that you've told me--neither
Doria nor Barbara--it will be the confidence of the confessional. You'll
be all the better for it. Believe me."

He shrugged himself f