ked Mr. Magee, "that you threw into the
safe when you saw me coming?"

"No," replied Mr. Bland, sighing deeply. "A package of letters, written
to me by Arabella at various times. I want to forget 'em. If I kept them
on hand, I might look at them from time to time. My great courage might
give way--you might find my body on the stairs. That's why I hid them."

Mr. Magee laughed, and stretched forth his hand.

"Believe me," he said, "your touching confidence in me will not be
betrayed. I congratulate you on your narrative power. You want my story.
Why am I here? I am not sure that it is worthy to follow yours. But it
has its good points--as I have thought it out."

He went over to the table, and picked up a popular novel upon which his
gaze had rested while the haberdasher spun his fabric of love and gloom.
On the cover was a picture of a very dashing maiden.

"Do you see that girl?" he asked. "She is beautiful, is she not? Even
Arabella, in her most splendid moments, could get a few points from her,
I fancy. Perhaps you are not familiar with the important part such a
picture plays in the success of a novel to-day. The truth is, however,
that the noble art of fiction writing has come to lean more and more
heavily on its illustrators. The mere words that go with the pictures
grow less important every day. There are dozens of distinguished
novelists in the country at this moment who might be haberdashers if it
weren't for the long, lean, haughty ladies who are scattered tastefully
through their works."

Mr. Bland stirred uneasily.

"I can see you are at a loss to know what my search for seclusion and
privacy has to do with all this," continued Mr. Magee. "I am an artist.
For years I have drawn these lovely ladies who make fiction salable to
the masses. Many a novelist owes his motor-car and his country house to
my brush. Two months ago, I determined to give up illustration forever,
and devote my time to painting. I turned my back on the novelists. Can
you imagine what happened?"

"My imagination's a little tired," apologized Mr. Bland.

"Never mind. I'll tell you. The leading authors whose work I had so long
illustrated saw ruin staring them in the face. They came to me, on their
knees, figuratively. They begged. They pleaded. They hid in the
vestibule of my flat. I should say, my studio. They even came up in my
dumb-waiter, having bribed the janitor. They wouldn't take no for an
answer. In order to escape them and