After all he was a guest, so he had to give in.
When he left a while later the platter was clean except for the bone, the level in the bottle of Scotch was down another three inches, the letterheads and envelopes were in my desk drawer, and the arrangement was all set, pending an okay by the Gazette high brass. Since the weekend was nearly on us, getting the okay might hold it up, but Lon thought there was a fair chance for Saturday and a good one for Sunday. The big drawback, in his opinion, was the fact that Wolfe would give no guarantee of the life of the series. He gave a firm promise for two articles, and said a third was likely, but that was as far as he would commit himself. Lon tried to get him to sign up for a minimum of six, but nothing doing.
Alone with Wolfe again, I gave him a look.
“Quit staring,” he said gruffly.
“I beg your pardon. I was figuring something. Two pieces of two thousand words each, four thousand words. Fifteen thousand — that comes to three seventy-five a word. And he doesn’t even write the pieces. If you’re going to ghost—”
“It’s bedtime.”
“Yes, sir. Besides writing the second piece, what comes next?”
“Nothing. We sit and wait. Confound it, if this doesn’t work...”
He told me good night and marched out to the elevator.