"Curious coincidence," he remarked, looking up from an abstract of his story. "In my very next chapter I take up the sufferings in captivity of a young and beautiful American girl who is languishing and starving in a loathsome cell, full of reptiles and poisonous beasts, like Gila monsters and centipedes. She is to be just your height and coloring and age."
I grew rigid with horror.
"You wouldn't—" I began.
"Oh yes, I would," replied the author, pleasantly. "Would you like to see the cell?"
"I would like to see the outside of your castle!" I cried, turning to the stairs.
The novelist laughed hollowly at the expression of hopelessness that came over my face as I observed that a huge iron grating had slid down from above and cut off my retreat.
"I am sorry, Miss Witherup, but I haven't got the outside of my castle in here. If I had I'd show it to you at once," he said.
"I beg of you, sir," I cried, going down on my knees before him. "Do let me go. I—"
"Don't be emotional, my dear," he replied, in a nice, fatherly way. "You will have an alternative. When I have receipted this," he added, writing out a bill and tossing it to me—"when I have receipted this, you can go."
I glanced at the paper. It called for £1500 for an interview of an hour and a half, at £1000 an hour.