He assured her patiently: "Mr. Campbell is away. On my word of honour I'm not he. You'll never find a publisher on view in the front office; they're always strongly entrenched behind barricades of our unsold 'favourite novels' in the cellar. Would you care to go down and dig for him?"
He had to talk nonsense to this girl; even aware of her errand; aware of the unspeakable wrong he had done her; and of the lies he was bound in due course to utter under scrutiny of those straight gold-fringed eyes, still he had to talk to her in this wise. She exhilarated him past all sense....
"Who are you, then? Another partner?"
"Mr. Alexander is the junior partner. He's out at present. That is to say, he's also down in the cellar. I'm reader to the firm. Is there anything I can do for you?"
And he asked this ... marvelling at his dispassionate insolence. If she knew——!
"Yes. I sent up a novel, about six weeks ago. It was called "The Reverse of the Medal." Nothing to you, of course. Bores you to death. I'm not expecting any rampant animation on the subject. But, being mine, I have a fond fancy to know what's happening to it."
"You've heard nothing from us?"
"A printed slip of acknowledgment, that's all."
Calmly Gareth verified her information from the volume in which the receipt of all manuscripts was noted down and dated.
"Yes, here we are ... by Pat O'Neill ... is that right?"