“I shouldn’t care for that,” said the chief, “if it were the thing.”
Ray winced, but the chief did not see it. Now, as always, it was merely and simply a question of the paper. He added carelessly:
“I should think such a story as that would succeed as a book.”
“I wish you would get some publisher to think so.”
The chief had nothing to say to that. He opened his desk and began to write.
In spite of the rejected manuscript lying on the table before him, Ray made out a very fair day’s work himself, and then he took it up town with him. He did not go at once to his hotel, but pushed on as far as Chapley’s, where he hoped to see Peace before she went home, and ask how her father was getting on; he had not visited Hughes for several weeks; he made himself this excuse. What he really wished was to confront the girl and divine her thoughts concerning himself. He must do that, now; but if it were not for the cruelty of forsaking the old man, it might be the kindest and best thing never to go near any of them again.
He had the temporary relief of finding her gone home when he reached Chapley’s. Mr. Brandreth was there, and he welcomed Ray with something more than his usual cordiality.
“Look here,” he said, shutting the door of his little room. “Have you got that story of yours where you could put your hand on it easily?”
“I can put my hand on it instantly,” said Ray, and he touched it.
“Oh!” Mr. Brandreth returned, a little daunted. “I didn’t know you carried it around with you.”