the grate; at last
came an interruption: the metallic clicking of a latch key, the tramp of
a man's feet in the vestibule, and Darley Roberts entered. A moment after
entering the newcomer paused attentive, his glance taking in every detail
of the all too familiar scene; deliberately, as usual, he hung up his
top-coat and hat.

"Taking it comfortable-like, I see," he commented easily as he pulled up
a second chair before the grate. "Knocked off for the evening, have
you?"

"Knocked off?" Armstrong shrugged. "I hardly know. I haven't knocked on
yet. I'm stuck in the mud, so to speak."

Roberts drew the customary black cigar from his waistcoat pocket and
clipped the end methodically. As he did so, apparently by chance, his
glance swept the mantel above the grate, and, returning, took in the
testimony of the desk with its unopened text-books and pile of scattered
manuscript. Equally without haste he lit a match and puffed until the
weed was well aglow.

"Any assistance a friend can give?" he proffered directly. "We all get
tangled at times, I guess. At least every one I know does."

Armstrong's gaze left the fire and fastened on his companion peculiarly.

"Do you yourself?" he asked bluntly.

"Often."

"That's news. I fancied you were immune. What, if I may ask, do you do at
such times to effect your release?"

"Go to bed, ordinarily, and sleep while the mud is drying up. There's
usually a big improvement by morning."

"And when there isn't--"

Roberts smiled, the tight-jawed smile of a fighter.

"It's a case of pull, then; a pull as though Satan himself were just
behind and in hot pursuit. Things are bound to give if one pulls hard
enough."

Armstrong's face returned to the grate. His slippered feet spread wider
than before.

"I'm not much good at pulling," he commented.

Roberts sat a moment in silence.

"I repeat, if I can be of any assistance--" he commented. "No butting in,
you understand."

"Yes, I understand, and thank you sincerely. I doubt if you can help any
though--if any one can. It's the old complaint mostly."

"Publishers who fail to appreciate, I gather."

"Partly."

"And what more, may I ask?"

Armstrong stretched back listlessly, his eyes half closed.

"Everything, it seems, to me to-night, every cursed thing!" Restless in
spite of his seeming inertia he straightened nervously. His fingers,
slender almost as those of a woman, opened and closed intermittently.
"First of all, t