To say his room was plainly furnished doesn’t express it. The apartment was like a prison cell. I’ve never been in gaol, of course. But I read “Convict 99” when it ran in a serial. The fire was out, the chairs were hard, and the whole thing was uncomfortable. Never struck such a shoddy place in my natural, ever since I called on a man I know slightly who was in “The Hand of Blood” travelling company No. 3 B.
“Delighted to see you, I’m sure,” said Mr. Cloyster. “In fact, I was just going to sit down and write to you.”
“Really,” said the Reverend. “Well, we’ve come of our own accord, and we’ve come to talk business.” Then turning to Blake and me he added, “May I state our case?”
“Most certainly, sir,” I answered. And Blake gave a nod.
“Briefly, then,” said the Reverend, “our mission is this: that we three want our contracts revised.”
“What contracts?” said Mr. Cloyster.
“Our contracts connected with your manuscripts.”
“Since when have the several matters of business which I arranged privately with each of you become public?”
“Tonight. It was quite unavoidable. We met by chance. We are not to blame. Tom Blake was——”
“Yes, he looks as if he had been.”