Mr. Morrow had a subtle smile. "It wouldn't be 'Miss' - there's a

wife!"
"I mean is she a man?"

"The wife?" - Mr. Morrow was for a moment as confused as myself.
But when I explained that I alluded to Dora Forbes in person he

informed me, with visibleamusement at my being so out of it, that
this was the "pen-name" of an indubitable male - he had a big red

moustache. "He goes in for the slight mystification because the
ladies are such popular favourites. A great deal of interest is

felt in his acting on that idea - which IS clever, isn't it? - and
there's every prospect of its being widely imitated." Our host at

this moment joined us again, and Mr. Morrow remarked invitingly
that he should be happy to make a note of any observation the

movement in question, the bid for success under a lady's name,
might suggest to Mr. Paraday. But the poor man, without catching

the allusion, excused himself, pleading that, though greatly
honoured by his visitor's interest, he suddenly felt unwell and

should have to take leave of him - have to go and lie down and keep
quiet. His young friend might be trusted to answer for him, but he

hoped Mr. Morrow didn't expect great things even of his young
friend. His young friend, at this moment, looked at Neil Paraday

with an anxious eye, greatly wondering if he were doomed to be ill
again; but Paraday's own kind face met his question reassuringly,

seemed to say in a glance intelligible enough: "Oh I'm not ill,
but I'm scared: get him out of the house as quietly as possible."

Getting newspaper-men out of the house was odd business for an
emissary of Mr. Pinhorn, and I was so exhilarated by the idea of it

that I called after him as he left us: "Read the article in THE
EMPIRE and you'll soon be all right!"

CHAPTER V.
"DELICIOUS my having come down to tell him of it!" Mr. Morrow

ejaculated. "My cab was at the door twenty minutes after THE
EMPIRE had been laid on my breakfast-table. Now what have you got

for me?" he continued, dropping again into his chair, from which,
however, he the next moment eagerly rose. "I was shown into the

drawing-room, but there must be more to see - his study, his
literary sanctum, the little things he has about, or other domestic

objects and features. He wouldn't be lying down on his study-
table? There's a great interest always felt in the scene of an

author's labours. Sometimes we're favoured with very delightful
peeps. Dora Forbes showed me all his table-drawers, and almost

jammed my hand into one into which I made a dash! I don't ask that
of you, but if we could talk things over right there where he sits

I feel as if I should get the keynote."
I had no wish whatever to be rude to Mr. Morrow, I was much too

initiated not to tend to more diplomacy; but I had a quick
inspiration, and I entertained an insurmountable, an almost

superstitious objection to his crossing the threshold of my
friend's little lonelyshabby consecrated workshop. "No, no - we

shan't get at his life that way," I said. "The way to get at his
life is to - But wait a moment!" I broke off and went quickly into

the house, whence I in three minutes reappeared before Mr. Morrow
with the two volumes of Paraday's new book. "His life's here," I

went on, "and I'm so full of this admirable thing that I can't talk
of anything else. The artist's life's his work, and this is the

place to observe him. What he has to tell us he tells us with THIS
perfection. My dear sir, the best interviewer is the best reader."

Mr. Morrow good-humouredly protested. "Do you mean to say that no
other source of information should be open to us?"

"None other till this particular one - by far the most copious -
has been quite exhausted. Have you exhausted it, my dear sir? Had

you exhausted it when you came down here? It seems to me in our
time almost wholly neglected, and something should surely be done

to restore its ruined credit. It's the course to which the artist
himself at every step, and with such pathetic confidence, refers

us. This last book of Mr. Paraday's is full of revelations."
"Revelations?" panted Mr. Morrow, whom I had forced again into his

chair.
"The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that

seems to me quite final all the author thinks, for instance, about
the advent of the 'larger latitude.'"

"Where does it do that?" asked Mr. Morrow, who had picked up the
second volume and was insincerely thumbing it.

"Everywhere - in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the
opinion, disengage the answer - those are the real acts of homage."

Mr. Morrow, after a minute, tossed the book away. "Ah but you
mustn't take me for a reviewer."

"Heaven forbid I should take you for anything so dreadful! You
came down to perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I may

confide to you, did I. Let us perform our little act together.
These pages overflow with the testimony we want: let us read them

and taste them and interpret them. You'll of course have perceived
for yourself that one scarcely does read Neil Paraday till one

reads him aloud; he gives out to the ear an extraordinary full
tone, and it's only when you expose it confidently to that test

that you really get near his style. Take up your book again and
let me listen, while you pay it out, to that wonderful fifteenth

chapter. If you feel you can't do it justice, compose yourself to
attention while I produce for you - I think I can! - this scarcely

less admirable ninth."
Mr. Morrow gave me a straight look which was as hard as a blow

between the eyes; he had turned rather red, and a question had
formed itself in his mind which reached my sense as distinctly as

if he had uttered it: "What sort of a damned fool are YOU?" Then
he got up, gathering together his hat and gloves, buttoning his

coat, projecting hungrily all over the place the big transparency
of his mask. It seemed to flare over Fleet Street and somehow made

the actual spot distressingly humble: there was so little for it
to feed on unless he counted the blisters of our stucco or saw his

way to do something with the roses. Even the poor roses were
common kinds. Presently his eyes fell on the manuscript from which

Paraday had been reading to me and which still lay on the bench.
As my own followed them I saw it looked promising, looked pregnant,

as if it gently throbbed with the life the reader had given it.
Mr. Morrow indulged in a nod at it and a vague thrust of his

umbrella. "What's that?"
"Oh, it's a plan - a secret."

"A secret!" There was an instant's silence, and then Mr. Morrow
made another movement. I may have been mistaken, but it affected

me as the translated impulse of the desire to lay hands on the
manuscript, and this led me to indulge in a quick anticipatory grab

which may very well have seemed ungraceful, or even impertinent,
and which at any rate left Mr. Paraday's two admirers very erect,

glaring at each other while one of them held a bundle of papers
well behind him. An instant later Mr. Morrow quitted me abruptly,

as if he had really carried something off with him. To reassure
myself, watching his broad back recede, I only grasped my

manuscript the tighter. He went to the back door of the house, the
one he had come out from, but on trying the handle he appeared to

find it fastened. So he passed round into the front garden, and by
listening intently enough I could presently hear the outer gate

close behind him with a bang. I thought again of the thirty-seven
influential journals and wondered what would be his revenge. I

hasten to add that he was magnanimous: which was just the most
dreadful thing he could have been. THE TATLER published a charming

chatty familiar account of Mr. Paraday's "Home-life," and on the
wings of the thirty-seven influential journals it went, to use Mr.

Morrow's own expression, right round the globe.
CHAPTER VI.

A WEEK later, early in May, my glorified friend came up to town,
where, it may be veraciously recorded he was the king of the beasts

of the year. No advancement was ever more rapid, no exaltation
more complete, no bewilderment more teachable. His book sold but

moderately, though the article in THE EMPIRE had done unwonted
wonders for it; but he circulated in person to a measure that the

libraries might well have envied. His formula had been found - he
was a "revelation." His momentaryterror had been real, just as