ffice at that crucial moment
when he decided the book's sale would gain by an announcement of the
much-debated name.

But even when the interest began to wane--for nothing lasts Londoners
more than a fortnight--Mr. Blatchley to every one's surprise was
adamant. He still persisted in the stupid lie that he had not found
out, himself....

"Look here, Alison," he said one day, when Geoffrey Alison had called
in at his little office off the Strand, "you're not playing cricket,
quite." He was a podgy little alien man, fattened beyond his years,
and he said this with all a British sportsman's sternness.

"Oh come, you know; don't say that," exclaimed the other, naturally
shocked. (His life average in the game itself would be a decimal.)

"I do, though," said the publisher and offered him a cigar. The artist
did not care for that especial form of smoke, but felt that this was
not the moment to be firm. He must not lose further prestige. He
would leave soon and throw it away.

There was a pause of some seconds, broken only by a crossing of
"Thanks" as they got things in order; then Blatchley lay back in his
office chair and blew out the first whiff of smoke.

"I certainly do," he said more definitely. "Look at it this way. _The
Confessions_ has been out eight weeks and we have sold just over thirty
thousand copies. That is pretty good, I know, and I'm extremely
grateful to you. But that is the past. Now look at the present. By
careful advertising I've induced the public to be really interested in
the question as to Zoe's real identity. That's not going to last, my
son. Somebody will do a murder or find out a home cure for corpulence.
In half a week the chatty columns of the Daily will be full of
something else. Every one who wants to has read Zoe and decided who
she is. Very well, then. Now," and here he raised a podgy but
dramatic finger, "this is the moment when we must say officially, 'The
Author-Husband is Dash Blank.' In a moment the whole thing revives;
every one is saying, 'I say, it _was_ Dash Blank. I knew you were
wrong. But what a show-up! What, not read it? Well, then, do.' The
sales will leap up to the fifty thousand and nobody can say where they
will stop. Without it, the book's dead." He stopped, dramatically
sudden.

These were the only times when Geoffrey Alison shared Helena's ideas
about the volume. "I'm very sorry if so," he said wearily, "but it's
sold like anything and I