pt."

"Then you buy by the _weight_," said Mortimer, smiling.

"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages.
As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too
heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."

"Your reader, sir?"

"Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I
seldom read my publications. I merely sell them--sometimes I don't do
_that_. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his
judgment."

"Ah!"

"He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments."

Mr. Hardwill might have added--"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and
'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not.

Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and
"striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a
vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot
say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents
of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.

On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the
reader nor myself; but, while remarking, _en passant_, that the book, owing
to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a
"second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit
ourselves.

It is 4 P. M.

Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr.
Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our
story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at this, (we doubt if
the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot--in
coming to the last page, where the author can write "FINIS"--which no one
but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with
regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his
brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished.

The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the
lawyer.

Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part
of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to
Daisy.

Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him
from being observed by the first-described group.

Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre
of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made