“‘Tell Mr. Reader to step this way,’ his employer ordered.
“Mr. Reader heard the message and came hurrying out. He was an undersized man, with somewhat prominent eyes concealed by gold-rimmed spectacles. He was possessed of extraordinary zest for the details of the business, and was withal an expert and careful adviser. Hence his hold upon the confidence of his employer.
“The latter addressed him with a curious and altogether unusual hesitation in his manner.
“‘Mr. Reader,’ he began, ‘there is a matter—a little matter—upon which I—er—wish to consult you.’
“‘Those American serial rights——’
“‘Nothing to do with business at all,’ Mr. Oppenheim interrupted, ruthlessly. ‘A little private matter.’
“‘Indeed, sir?’”
Now as I say, at this point I went back and found to my bewilderment at first, but perfect satisfaction afterward, that Mr. Oppenheim seemed to be Mr. Weatherley, a worthy provisioner; the title, an umbrella; the Plot, a copy of the London Times; and the alarming commission from Mr. Oppenheim’s conscience, a possibly no less embarrassing commission from Mr. Weatherley’s wife. Thereupon everything went smoothly and excitingly through thirty-seven chapters. But afterward it occurred to me that perhaps, after all, my blunder, visual or mental, was not an unnatural one. Who has not had in his mind’s eye a picture of Mr. Oppenheim with a Plot, or Plots, bulging from his pockets, and with as many titles in his mental wardrobe as most men have neckties? And what one of his readers has not felt himself, time and again, personally summoned by the author to the consideration of a matter—a little matter—a quite private matter just then upon the author’s conscience....