fused to buy his "Some Light on the Dynastic Proclivities
of the Hyksos" would scramble for. On the whole I considered the report
satisfactory.

We found we would be unable to have Pyle illustrate the book, he being
too busy, so we turned it over to a young man at the Art Institute.

That was the fifteenth of October, and we had promised the book to the
public for the first of November, but we had it already in type and the
young man, his name was Gilkowsky, promised to work night and day on
the illustrations.

The next morning, almost as soon as I reached the office, Gilkowsky came
in. He seemed a little hesitant, but I welcomed him warmly, and he spoke
up.

"I have a girl to go with," he said, and I wondered what I had to do
with Mr. Gilkowsky's girl, but he continued:

"She's a nice girl and a good looker, but she's got bad taste in some
things. She's too loud in hats, and too trashy in literature. I don't
like to say this about her, but it's true and I'm trying to educate her
in good hats and good literature. So I thought it would be a good thing
to take around this 'Crimson Cord' and let her read it to me."

I nodded.

"Did she like it?" I asked.

Mr. Gilkowsky looked at me closely.

"She did," he said, but not so enthusiastically as I had expected.

"It's her favorite book. Now, I don't know what your scheme is, and I
suppose you know what you are doing better than I do; but I thought
perhaps I had better come around before I got to work on the
illustrations and see if perhaps you hadn't given me the wrong
manuscript."

"No, that was the right manuscript," I said. "Was there anything wrong
about it?"

Mr. Gilkowsky laughed nervously.

"Oh, no!" he said. "But did you read it?"

I told him I had not because I had been so rushed with details connected
with advertising the book.

"Well," he said, "I'll tell you. This girl of mine reads pretty trashy
stuff, and she knows about all the cheap novels there are. She dotes on
'The Duchess,' and puts her last dime into Braddon. She knows them all
by heart. Have you ever read 'Lady Audley's Secret'?"

"I see," I said. "One is a sequel to the other."

"No," said Mr. Gilkowsky. "One is the other. Some one has flim-flammed
you and sold you a typewritten copy of 'Lady Audley's Secret' as a new
novel."

V

When I told Perkins he merely remarked that he thought every publishing
house ought to have some one in it who knew something about books, apart
fro