shock came. He ran through
the corridors like a frightened doe, in pajamas of silk, with wonderful
tassels of green. He wrung his hands, and babbled like a lunatic. "Oh,
my manuscripts! My manuscripts!" were the only intelligible words that
came from his white lips.

Think of it! He thought of those piffling stories--those stories of
unreality, when he was experiencing the biggest thing that ever came
into his little life! Do you wonder that we cared even less for him
after that? That I refused to see him at all, and that even wise,
understanding Bill Stanton couldn't touch his syndicate stuff?

IV

There is, of necessity, a hiatus here. One cannot write of what one does
not know. I lost all trace of Shelby during the intervening years,
except that I saw spasmodic productions of his in various periodicals,
and guessed that he must be working in those same bachelor quarters
probably still surrounded with the pictures of Miss Davis. There were
rumors, also, that he went frequently to the opera with very grand
people, and dined and supped on Lower as well as Upper Fifth Avenue. It
was whispered in editorial circles that he had come to care more as to
where he could dine next week than how he could write next week. You
see, he was most personable, and he could flatter ladies, and drink like
a gentleman, and wear his evening clothes to perfection--he still had
them made in London--and that sort of unmarried man is always in demand
in New York. Add to these social graces the piquancy of a little
literary reputation, and you have the perfect male butterfly.

Shelby fluttered his way through the corridors and drawing rooms of the
rich, and his later work, if you will notice, always touches upon what
is called smart society. We heard that he never mentioned his newspaper
days--that he was not a little ashamed of having spent so many months
bending over a typewriter in a dingy, cluttered office. Yet it was there
he had learned to write; and had he been true to the best traditions of
those days of exciting assignments, how far he might have gone on the
long literary road!

The war came. Of course Shelby was beyond the draft age--quite far
beyond it; but he had no ties, was in perfect physical condition, and he
might have found in the trenches another contact that would have made a
thorough man of him. Again, he had always loved England and the English
so dearly that it would not have been surprising had he offered his
serv