a chair and discovered
cherrywood where I had hoped to find Chippendale. It is through such
marginalia that we come to know people. I could not reconcile Shelby's
delicate style with so forlorn a taste for other literary dishes. I said
then that he would never become a great writer. He would simply mark
time, artistically speaking, after reaching a certain point. Thereafter
everything he produced would be but repetition.

I was right. His virgin novel proved a rank failure. The man could do
nothing sustained. He was essentially a person of brilliant flashes. The
book, called, as you may remember, "The Shadow and the Substance," was a
_tour de force_ in vapid writing, and it almost severed his literary
jugular vein. All the reviewers, delighted with a chance to play upon
his title, said it contained far more shadow than substance.

Shelby had had easy sailing up till that time. His pride was hurt by the
reception of the book; and he told me he was going to flee to
London--which he straightway did. Then I heard of him in his beloved
England; and from there he sent me several short manuscripts filled with
his old grace and charm of style--a sort of challenge to his critics.
But always we waited for the story with a punch; for the story that
would show there was a soul in the fellow. These pale blossoms were all
very well--as magazine bait to capture the young girl reader of our
smart periodical; but too many of them cloyed. It was as though you
served a banquet and made _hors d'oeuvres_ the main dish.

Yet his popularity with our readers was tremendous. Letters, addressed
in feminine handwriting, came to him in our care every day, from all
over the land; and he was no doubt flattered by silly women who were
fascinated even more by his fiction after we printed his romantic
photograph. For he had a profile that captivated many a girl, eyes that
seemed to speak volumes; and no doubt there were numerous boudoirs that
contained his picture, just as his rooms contained so many likenesses of
Marguerite Davis.

I next heard of him in Egypt, where he said he was gathering colour for
a new romance. He stayed away several months, and then blew in one
morning, better-looking than ever, brown and clear-eyed. He had been all
over the Orient, and he said his note-book was full of material. Now he
could sit down quietly and write. He had so much to put on paper, he
told me.

But he hadn't. He dreamed adventure, he craved adventure; b