“No,” said Mike, “that isn’t fair.  You don’t write a line of the book.  There is not even the excuse of commission, for the book is now appearing.”

“Escott would not have paid you anything like that amount.  I think I’m treating you very liberally.  Indeed I don’t mind telling you that I should not offer you anything like such terms if Beacham Brown were not anxious to have the book; he read your last article in the train, and came back raving about it.”

Bright pleasure passed across Mike’s face; he thought Thigh had slipped in the avowal, and he girt himself for resolute resistance and cautious attack.  But Thigh was the superior strategist.  Mike was led from the subject, and imperceptibly encouraged to speak of other things, and without interruption he span paradoxes and scattered jokes for ten minutes.  Then the conversation dropped, and annoyed, Mike fixed his eyes on Thigh, who sat in unmovable silence.

“Well,” said Mike, “what do you intend to do?”

“About what?” said Thigh, with a half-waking stare.

“About this book of mine.  You know very well that if I take it to another shop you’ll find it difficult to get anything like as good a serial.  I know pretty well what talent is walking about Fleet Street.”

Thigh said nothing, only raised his eyes as if Mike’s words were full of suggestion, and again beguiled, Mike rambled into various criticisms of contemporary journalism.  Friends were laughed at, and the papers they edited were stigmatized as rags that lived upon the ingenuity of the lies of advertising agents.  When the conversation again dropped, Thigh showed no inclination of returning to the book, but, as before, sat in stony silence, and out of temper with himself, Mike had to ask him again what the terms were.

“I cannot offer you better terms than I have already done.”

“Very well; I’ll take one hundred and fifty for the serial rights.”

“No, for the entire rights.”

“No, I’ll be damned, I don’t care what happens!”

Then Frank joined in the discussion.  Every one withdrew the offer he had made, and all possibility of agreement seemed at an end.  Somehow it was suggested that Thigh should toss Mike whether he should pay him two hundred or a hundred and fifty.  The men exchanged questioning looks, and at that moment Lizzie entered with a pack of cards, and Thigh said—­

“I’ll play you at ecarte—­the best out of seven games.”

Mike realized at once the situation, and he hoped Frank would not betray him.  He saw that Thigh had been drinking.  “God has given him into my hands,” he thought; and it was agreed that they should play the best out of seven games for twenty-five pounds, and that the loser should have the right to call for a return match.  Mike knew nothing of his opponent’s play, but he did not for a moment suspect him of superior skill.  Such a thing could hardly be, and he decided he would allow him to win