from her was by no means an everyday affair, for she was a woman of caprices, as who should know better than he?  There were weeks during which it was her pleasure to hold herself aloof from him—­and others—­when the servants who denied her shook their heads to all questions, and letters met with no response.  What should he find inside, he wondered?  An invitation, or a reproof.  He had tried so hard to see her lately.  He was in no hurry to open it.  He had grown to expect very little from her.  While it was unopened there was at least the pleasure of expectancy.  He traced the letters over.  There was the same curl of the S, the same finely formed capitals, the same deliberate and firm dash after the address.  Then a thought came to him.  It was Wednesday, the night on which she often saw her friends.  Surely this was a summons.  He might see her within a few hours.  He tore open the envelope and read:—­

“No. 20, Grosvenor st.,

“Wednesday.

“My friend,—­so often I have bidden you find work for the young people in whom I have interested myself, that my present charge upon your good-nature will doubtless seem strange to you.  Yet I am as much in earnest now as then, and for the favour of granting what I now ask I shall be equally grateful.  There is a young man named Jesson who has sent you a story, and who hopes to secure more work from you.  It is not my wish that he should have it at present, and with regard to the work which you have already accepted, please let its production be delayed as long as possible, and payment for it made on the smallest possible scale.  You will wonder at this, I know.  Never mind.  Do as I ask and I will explain later.

“That reminds me that I have seen nothing of you lately.  This evening I shall be at home from ten to eleven.  If your engagements permit of your coming to see me, I may perhaps be able to take you into my confidence.  If you should come, bring with you the manuscript of this boy’s story that I may judge for myself if the Ibex will be the loser.  Yours most truly,

“Emily de Reuss.”

Drexley glanced through the letter rapidly, read it again more carefully, and then turned with a perplexed face to a little telephone which stood upon his table.  He summoned his manager, an untidy-looking person with crumpled hair and inkstained fingers which he seemed perpetually attempting to conceal.

“Mr. Warmington, is that Jesson story set up?” the editor inquired.

“Yes, sir.  I understand that those were your instructions.”

Drexley nodded.

“Well, I shall want it kept back for a bit,” he said.  “You can take another story of about the same length from the accepted chest.”

The manager stared.

“We’ve nothing else as good,” he remarked.  “You said yourself that Jesson’s story was the best bit of work we’d had in for a long time.”