their competition for
stories. Geoffrey Ford's anxiety increased to fever heat. His heart
stood still every time he heard the postman's knock. His wife knew that
it was so, although he did his best to hide how it was with him.

"To-morrow," he said, "I shall know if I have won."

"Or," his wife suggested faintly, "if you have lost."

[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO UNFASTEN IT WITH HANDS WHICH TREMBLED."]

"Or, as you say, if I have lost. But we won't speak of losing. I have
never put my heart into anything as I have put it into this. I am sure
that 'The Beggar' is the best work I have ever done--I am sure of it. I
will go further, and say I believe it is as good work as I shall ever
do. Upon my honour, Philippa, something tells me I shall win--it does!
Oh, if I could only win!"

He had arranged that a copy of the issue of the paper containing the
announcement should be sent to him by post. That morning the postman
brought him two enclosures. One was a bulky parcel. When he saw it, his
heart, all at once, ceased beating. He had to gasp for breath. Without a
word, he began to unfasten it, with hands which trembled. Philippa
bustled about the breakfast table, as if her own heart was not working
like a wheezy pair of bellows.

[Illustration: "'BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY! I AM PHILIP AYRE.'"]

"Philippa! it's 'The Beggar'! the manuscript--come back again!"

"Never mind." How she tried to speak in the most commonplace of voices.
"You can send it somewhere else. It's sure to get accepted."

"Send it somewhere else?" She saw that his lips were twitching, that
his face seemed bloodless. "But--I don't understand. Not a word of
explanation is enclosed. I don't know what it means. Perhaps there's
some mistake. Let's--let's see who's won."

The other enclosure which had come for him was obviously a copy of the
paper. He tore it open-still with hands which trembled. He searched its
columns for the announcement.

"My God!"

"Geoffrey! what's the matter? Who has won? Oh, Geoffrey, have you won?"

"Me! me!" He rose to his feet, as it were, inch by inch. "It's Philip
Ayre!"

"Philip Ayre!"

Falling on her knees beside the table, Mrs. Ford covered her face with
her hands.

"It's Philip Ayre! Didn't I tell you he was destined to be my evil star?
Curse----"

Mrs. Ford rose up in front of him.

"Geoffrey, be careful what you say! I am Philip Ayre."

"You? What do you mean?"

She advanced to him, on tottering feet, with ou