n guarantee or not?"

"Well, Mr. Jeffers, there's the publisher's advertisement."

"Why, yes, so there is! And a respectable publisher wouldn't indorse a
book that wasn't the genuine article, would he now, sir?"

"He mightn't," Erlcort said, as if he felt the force of the argument.

"And there are the notices in the newspapers. They ought to tell,"
Miss Prittiman added, more convincingly. "I don't know," she said, as
from a sensitive conscience, "whether there have been any about this
book yet, but I should think there would be."

"And in the mean time, as you won't guarantee the book so that I can
bring it back and get my money if I find it worthless, I must accept
the publisher's word?" Erlcort pressed further.

"I should think you could do that," the floor-walker suggested, with
the appearance of being tired.

"Well, I think I will, for once," Erlcort relented. "But wait! What
does the publisher say?"

"It's all printed on this slip inside," the blonde said, and she
showed it as she took the book from him. "Shall I send it? Or will
you--"

"No, no, thank you, I'll take it with me. Let me--"

He kept the printed slip and began to read it. The blonde wrapped the
book up and laid it with a half-dollar in change on the counter before
Erlcort. The floor-walker went away; Erlcort heard him saying, "No,
madam; toys on the fifth floor, at the extreme rear, left," while he
lost himself in the glowing promises of the publisher. It appeared
that the book he had just bought was by a perfectly new author, an old
lady of seventy who had never written a novel before, and might
therefore be trusted for an entire freshness of thought and feeling.
The plot was of a gripping intensity; the characters were painted with
large, bold strokes, and were of an unexampled virility; the story was
packed with passion from cover to cover; and the reader would be held
breathless by the author's skill in working from the tragic conditions
to an all-round happy conclusion.

From time to time Erlcort heard the gentle blonde saying such things
as, "Oh yes; it's the best-seller, all right," and, "All I can say is
I set up till two o'clock in the morning to finish it," and, "Yes,
ma'am; it's by a new writer; a very old lady of seventy who is just
beginning to write; well, that's what I _heard_."

On his way up-town in the Subway he clung to the wonted strap,
unsupported by anything in the romance which he had bought; and yet he
could not