"It sounds like a book," I suggested.
"Great!" cried Perkins. "A novel! The novel! Think of the words 'A Crimson Cord' in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!" He pulled his hat over his eyes and spread out his hands, and I think he shuddered.
"Think of 'A Crimson Cord,'" he muttered, "in blood-red letters on a ground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing through them like a serpent."
He sat up suddenly and threw one hand in the air.
"Think," he cried, "of the words in black on white with a crimson cord drawn taut across the whole ad!"
He beamed upon me.
"The cover of the book," he said quite calmly, "will be white—virgin, spotless white—with black lettering, and the cord in crimson. With each copy we will give a crimson silk cord for a book-mark. Each copy will be done up in a white box and tied with crimson cord."
He closed his eyes and tilted his head upward.
"A thick book," he said, "with deckel edges and pictures by Christy. No, pictures by Pyle. Deep, mysterious pictures! Shadows and gloom! And wide, wide margins. And a gloomy foreword. One fifty per copy, at all booksellers."
Perkins opened his eyes and set his hat straight with a quick motion of his hand. He arose and pulled on his gloves.