"Why doesn't she get it published in volume form?"
"The publishers have all declined it."
Didcott groaned. "But if you paid for the cost of production?"
"I offered that. All the good firms decline it even on those terms, and she won't go to a second-rate house. She was so cut up, and—and—hang it, she's my only child."
Didcott rose. "Very well, I'll look through it and see what it is like. We will talk over the matter again."
The old man rose and held out his hand.
"Don't be angry, my boy," he said. "I know it's a great nuisance, but—but very few people read serial stories. I daresay it will pass unnoticed. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," repeated the editor, mechanically. When Mr. Winder had gone, he took up a knife and cut the string of the bulky package. Taking out the manuscript, he began to read.
Half an hour later, he stumbled down the office stairs with the face of a demon and lips that moved without speaking. The office boy trembled as he passed.