"One moment first. You think that manuscript has been written by Florence Aylmer?"
"Why not? Of course it has!" He looked uneasily from the paper in his hand to the girl who stood before him. "What do you mean?"
"I have something to tell you. You may be angry with me, but I do not much care. I possess the genius, not Florence Aylmer; I am the writer of that story. Florence Aylmer wrote one thing for you, a schoolgirl essay, which you returned. I wrote the papers which the public liked; I wrote the stories which the public devoured. I am the woman of genius; I am the ghost behind Florence Aylmer; I am the real author. You can give up the false: the real has come to you at last."
"You must be telling me an untruth," said Franks. He staggered back, his face became green, his eyes flashed angrily.
"I am telling you the truth; you have but to ask Florence herself. Has she not broken off her engagement with you?"
"She has, and a good thing, too," he muttered under his breath.
"Ah! I heard those words, though you said them so low, and it is a good thing for you. You would never have been happy with a girl like Florence. I know her well. I don't pretend that I played a very nice part; but still I am not ashamed. I want money now; I did not want money when I offered my productions to Florence. I hoped that I should be a very rich woman. My hopes have fallen to the ground; therefore I take back that talent with which Nature has endowed me. You can give me orders for the Argonaut in the future. You will kindly pay me for that story. Now I think I have said what I meant to say, and I wish you good-morning."
"But you must stay a moment, Miss—I really forget your name."
"My name is Keys—Bertha Keys. Other well-known magazines will pay me for all I can write for them; but I am willing to give you the whole of my writings, say for three months, if you are willing to pay me according to my own ideas."
"What are those?"