“I know,” said Carter doubtfully. “If it were for a mile, I would say Delhi, but I don’t think he can last the distance. In the morning I’ll wire you.”
As they settled back in their car, Carter took both of Dolly’s hands in his. “So far as money goes,” he said, “we are independent of your mother—independent of my books; and I want to make you a promise. I want to promise you that, no matter what I dream in the future, I’ll never back another horse.” Dolly gave a gasp of satisfaction.
“And what’s more,” added Carter hastily, “not another dollar can you risk in backing my books. After this, they’ve got to stand or fall on their legs!”
“Agreed!” cried Dolly. “Our plunging days are over.”
When they reached the flat they found waiting for Carter the junior partner of a real publishing house. He had a blank contract, and he wanted to secure the right to publish Carter’s next book.
“I have a few short stories——” suggested Carter.
Collections of short stories, protested the visitor truthfully, “do not sell. We would prefer another novel on the same lines as ‘The Dead Heat.’”
“Have you read ‘The Dead Heat’?” asked Carter.
“I have not,” admitted the publisher, “but the next book by the same author is sure to——. We will pay in advance of royalties fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Could you put that in writing?” asked Carter. When the publisher was leaving he said: