“You’ve brought it on your own head,” warned the publisher, wagging a forefinger at the smiling Angel. “Now let me tell you why you have motored down from London on this miserable night on a fairly fruitless errand.”
“Eh?” The smile left Angel’s face.
“Ah, I thought that would startle you! You’ve come about a book?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy wonderingly.
“A book published by our people nine years ago?”
“Yes,” the wonderment deepening on the faces of the two men.
“The title,” said the publisher impressively, “is A Short Study on the Origin of the Alphabet, and the author is a half-mad old don, who was subsequently turned out of Oxford for drunkenness.”
“Mauder,” said Jimmy, gazing at his host in bewilderment, “you’ve hit it—but——”
“Ah,” said the publisher, triumphant, “I thought that was it. Well, your search is fruitless. We only printed five hundred copies; the book was a failure—the same ground was more effectively covered by better books. I found a dusty old copy a few years ago, and gave it to my secretary. So far as I know, that is the only copy in existence.”
“But your secretary?” said Angel eagerly. “What is his name? Where does he live?”