“Yes?”
“You see, old man, I have played you false. I have come here to confess and to ask forgiveness. You remember you gave me the manuscript of ‘Ephemeræ’ to read. Well, I took it to a well-known publisher, suppressing the name of the author, and asking for an expression of opinion regarding its merits.”
Fenton knocked the ashes from his cigar with a gesture of annoyance, but said nothing.
“Have you no curiosity, John?” exclaimed Richard impatiently. “Don’t you care to hear the verdict?”
Without waiting for a reply the youth arose, and, fumbling in his overcoat for a moment, took therefrom a roll of manuscript and a letter.
“I am tempted to punish your indifference, John; but the game is not worth the candle, I fear. Never mind a light. The letter is short. I can read it by the fire, if you will deign to listen. The publisher, John, expresses himself as much pleased with the book, and is inclined to think that it would find a ready market. He objects, however, to the title, and to one or two small details in the dénouement. If you will make the changes he suggests, however, he will bring out the story at once. In closing he politely hints that a type-written copy be returned to him.”
Fenton puffed on in silence for a time, and then leaned forward and took the roll of manuscript from Richard’s hand. Hesitating an instant, as if to make sure that the decision he had reached was irrevocable, he threw the bundle of paper into the fire. Richard sprang forward, but Fenton seized him by the arm and forced him back into his seat.
“Let it burn, Richard. Let it burn. It has had two narrow escapes from publication already. It shall never have another.”
“But are you mad, John? The story would make you famous. Good Heavens, man! it is too late. I call it a crime, John, a crime! Do you hear?”
“Come, come, Richard! don’t grow hysterical,” remarked Fenton calmly, as he leaned back in his chair and resumed his cigar, to dissipate the odor of burnt paper that filled the room.