Vyse laid the letters aside. “I think I can do it—if you’ll give me a notion of the tone I’m to take.”
“The tone?”
“Yes—that is, if I’m to sign your name.”
“Oh, of course: I expect you to sign for me. As for the tone, say just what you’d—well, say all you can without encouraging them to answer.”
Vyse rose from his seat. “I could submit a few specimens,” he suggested.
“Oh, as to that—you always wrote better than I do,” said Betton handsomely.
“I’ve never had this kind of thing to write. When do you wish me to begin?” Vyse enquired, ignoring the tribute.
“The book’s out on Monday. The deluge will begin about three days after. Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out with real heartiness. “It was great luck for me, your striking that advertisement. Don’t be too harsh with my correspondents—I owe them something for having brought us together.”
II
THE deluge began punctually on the Thursday, and Vyse, arriving as punctually, had an impressive pile of letters to attack. Betton, on his way to the Park for a ride, came into the library, smoking the cigarette of indolence, to look over his secretary’s shoulder.