ruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good-
bye," he said.

As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it
flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under
circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.

The _Sponge_ was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the
week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As
Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had
done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.

Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and
at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was
particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson's
opinion was infallible.

"How did _you_ come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with
unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.

"Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor,
indignantly.

"It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily;
"but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that
accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?"

"No; why do you ask?"

"Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, I
don't think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind."

"He told me," said the new member, with some hesitation--"but really I
don't think I'm justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell it
in confidence--that he was the rightful heir to a property in----"

"Oh, we all know that story!" cried the Club, unanimously.

"I think it's the Club whiskey," said one of the oldest members. "I
say, it's the worst in London."

"Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee," put in
Johnson. "If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, that
friend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet."

These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat
down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing,
McCabe, the business manager of the _Sponge_, came in.

"What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked.

"Matter? I don't understand you."

"Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra ten
thousand, and here comes a demand from Smith's for the whole lot. The
extra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over the
country who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printe