And now came a letter from Thomas in the city to Agnes at “Greenways”:—
“Here’s a chance for you if you can only take it. We’ve just heard that writing chap, Hugh Kinross, has gone to Burunda for a holiday. The beggar has dodged every attempt at an interview, though we and every other paper, for the matter of that, have lain for him in every possible place. Well, I was talking to the editor the other day—he’s no end affable to me, and often has a chat—and I happened to say you were at Burunda. And he said, ‘Burunda! why that’s where Kinross is taking a holiday. Tell her to get any interesting information she can about him, and I’ll pay her well for it. If she can manage an interview—a woman can rush in sometimes where a man fears to tread—I’ll give her six guineas. Yes, and take one of the stories with which she is always bombarding me, hanged if I won’t!’
“You can see it’s worth trying for, old girl. Six guineas down for the interview, and say another four for a short story, not counting getting into print at last. Go in and win, say I. I’m sending with this an English mag. or two, with interviews in to show you the style of thing they need.
“You can easily find him out; he’s sure to be at one of the hotels. Dog him on a walk some day, and then when you’ve got him cornered somewhere where he can’t escape, [p76] whip out your note-book and make him hold up his arms. Butter him up a bit, and he’ll give in; he’s not been famous long enough not to feel inclined to purr if you rub him the right way.
“He’s written two or three books; Liars All is one of them. They’re not in your line, of course, but I must say they’re not at all bad. Well, go in and win.
“Yours,
“Tom.
“PS.—I banked thirteen pounds six to-day for Grace—more royalties from the Cookery Book. Why don’t you try something in the same line? Poultry Keeping for Retrenched Incomes, for instance; it would sell like penny ice creams on a heat-wave day.”
Miss Bibby, after reading this letter for the third time that day, hastened into the dining-room where the children were awaiting her, a red spot on her cheek, and a hole burning inside her sleeve near her elbow, where, being pocketless as any modern woman, she had tucked the letter.