ilbert's opera. I could feel my guilty
fingers in his pocket.

_'S Death_ was suggested, but it was too flippant, too farcical. _'S
Blood_, although effective in red lights, met the same objection. _The
Spittin' Devil_, named for our pirate ship, lacked refinement.
Certainly no lady in silk and lace would admit acquaintance with so
gross a personage.

_Darlin'_ was offered to me--the name of the old lady with one tooth
who cooks and mixes the grog for my sailormen. And I still think that
with better spelling it would be an excellent title for musical
comedy. But it was naught for a pirate play. Its anemia would soften
the vigor of my lines. One could as well call the tale of Bluebeard by
the name of his casual cook.

Then _Clovelly_ seemed enough. At the very least--if my publisher were
energetic--it ensured a brisk sale of the printed play among the
American tourists on the Devon coast, who travel by boat or
char-a-banc to this ancient fishing village where we set our plot. For
even a trivial book sells to trippers if its story is laid around the
corner. Would it not be pleasant, I thought, when I visit the place
again, to see them thumbing me as they waited for the steamer--to see
a whole window of myself placed in equal prominence with picture
postal cards? When I registered at the inn alongside the wharf might I
not hope that the landlady would recognize my name and give me, as an
honored guest, a front room that looks upon the ocean? Perhaps, as I
had my tea and clotted cream on the village staircase, I might mention
casually to a pretty tourist that I was the author of the book that
protruded from her handbag--and fetch my dishes to her table.

It is so seldom that an obscure author catches anyone _flagrante
dilicto_ on his book. Will no one ever read a book of mine in the
subway, that I may tap him on the shoulder? Do travelers never put me
in their grips? Must everyone read in public the latest novel, and
reserve all plays and essays for their solitary hours? At the club I
shuffle to the top any periodical that contains my name, but the
crowded noon buries me deep again.

At best, maybe, in a lending library, I see a date stamped inside my
cover; but, although I linger near the shelf, no one comes to draw me
down. I think that hunters must look with equal hunger on the bear's
tread. 'T is here! 'T is there! But the cunning creature has escaped.
Blackmore's pleasant ghost frequents the shadowy church at Por