She also gave him to read a series of eight stories, in a line usually esteemed quite foreign to feminine instincts. Alice had conceived the idea of a young man, physically weak and suffering from nervous debility, being left an immense fortune at the age of twenty-one. His money was well invested, and in company with a faithful attendant he travelled for fifteen years, covering every nook and corner of the habitable globe. At thirty-six he returned home much improved in health, but still having a marked aversion to engaging in any business pursuit.

A mysterious case and its solution having been related to him, he resolved to devote his income, now amounting to a million dollars yearly, to amateur detective work. His great-desire was to ferret out and solve mysteries, murders, suicides, robberies, and disappearances that baffled the police and eluded their vigilant inquiry.

The t.i.tles that Alice had chosen for her stories were as mysterious, in their way, as the stories themselves. Arranged in the order of their writing, they were: Was it Signed? The Man Without a Tongue; He Thought He Was Dead; The Eight of Spades; The Exit of Mrs. Delmonnay; How I Caught the Fire-Bugs; The Hot Hand; and The Mystery of Unreachable Island.

When Quincy reached the city, his first visit was to his father's office, but he found him absent. He was told that he was conducting a case in the Equity Session of the Supreme Court, and would not return to the office that day.

Instead of leaving his letter at his friend's office, he went directly to the Adjutant-General's office at the State House. Here he found that an acquaintance of his was employed as a clerk. He was of foreign birth, but had served gallantly through the war and had left an arm upon the battlefield. He made his request for a copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout, of the --th Ma.s.s. Volunteers. Then a thought came suddenly to him and he requested one also of the record of Hiram Maxwell of the same regiment.

Leaving the State House on the Hanc.o.c.k Avenue side, he walked down that narrow but convenient thoroughfare, and was standing at its entrance to the sidewalk on Beacon Street, debating which publisher he would call on first, when a cheery voice said, "h.e.l.lo, Sawyer." When he looked up he saw an old Latin School and college chum, named Leopold Ernst. Ernst was a Jew, but he had been one of the smartest and most popular of the boys in school and of the men at Harvard.

"What are you up to?" asked Ernst.

"Living on my small fortune and my father's bounty," said Quincy. "Not a very creditable record, I know, but my health has not been very good, and I have been resting for a couple of months in the country."

"Not much going on in the country at this time of the year I fancy,"

remarked Ernst.

"That's where you are wrong," said Quincy. "There has been the devil to pay ever since I landed in the town, and I've got mixed up in so many complications that I don't expect to get back to town before next Christmas. But what are you doing, Ernst?"

"Oh, I am in for literature; not the kind that consists in going round with a notebook and prying into people's business, with a hope one day of becoming an editor, and working twenty hours out of the twenty-four each day. Not a bit of it, I am reader for ----;" and he mentioned the name of a large publishing house. "I have my own hours and a comfortable salary. I sit like Solomon upon the efforts of callow authors and the productions of ripened genius. Sometimes I discover a diamond in the rough, and introduce a new star to the literary firmament; and at other times I cut up some egotistical old writer, who thinks anything he turns out will be sure to please the public."

"How fortunate that I have met you?" said Quincy. "I have in this little carpet bag the first effusions of one of those callow authors of whom you spoke. She is poor, beautiful, and blind."

"Don't try to trade on my sympathies, old boy," said Ernst. "No person who is poor has any right to become an author. It takes too long in these days to make a hit, and the poor author is bound to die before the hit comes. The 'beautiful' gag don't work with me at all. The best authors are homelier than sin and it's a pity that their pictures are ever published. As regards the 'blind' part, that may be an advantage, for dictating relieves one of the drudgery of writing one's self, and gives one a chance for a fuller play of one's fancies than if tied to a piece of wood, a scratchy pen, and a bottle of thick ink."

"Then you won't look at them," said Quincy.

"I didn't say so," replied Ernst. "Of course, I can't look at them in a business way, unless they are duly submitted to my house, but I have been reading a very badly written, but mightily interesting ma.n.u.script, for the past two days and a half, and I want a change of work or diversion, to brush up my wits. Now, old fellow," said he, taking Quincy by the arm, "if you will come up to the club with me, and have a good dinner with some Chianti, and a gla.s.s or two of champagne, and a pousse cafe to finish up with, then we will go up to my rooms on Chestnut Street--I have a whole top floor to myself--we will light up our cigars, and you may read to me till to-morrow morning and I won't murmur. But, mind you, if the stories are mighty poor I may go to sleep, and if I do that, you might as well go to bed too, for when I once go to sleep I never wake up till I get good and ready."

Quincy had intended after seeing a publisher to leave the ma.n.u.scripts for examination, then to take tea with his mother and sisters, and go back to Eastborough on the five minutes past six express. But he was p.r.o.ne to yield to fate, which is simply circ.u.mstances, and he accepted his old college chum's invitation with alacrity. He could get the opinion of an expert speedily, and that fact carried the day with him.

When they were comfortably ensconced in their easy-chairs on the top floor, and the cigars lighted, Quincy commenced reading. Leopold had previously shown him his suite, which consisted of a parlor, or rather a sitting-room, a library, which included princ.i.p.ally the works of standard authors and reference books, his sleeping apartment, and a bathroom.

There was a large bed lounge in the sitting-room, and Quincy determined to read every story in his carpet bag, if it took him all night. He commenced with the series of detective or mystery stories. He had read them over before and was able to bring out their strong points oratorically, for, as it has been said before, he was a fine speaker.

Quincy eyed Ernst over the corner of the ma.n.u.script he was reading, but the latter understood his business. Occasionally he was betrayed into a nod of approval and several times shook his head in a negative way, but he uttered no word of commendation or disapproval.

After several of the stories had been read, Ernst called a halt, and going to a cupboard brought out some crackers, cake, and a decanter of wine, with gla.s.ses, which he put upon a table, and placed within comfortable reach of both reader and listener. Then he said, "Go ahead,"

munched a cracker, sipped his wine, and then lighted a fresh cigar.

When the series was finished, Leopold said, "Now we will have some tea.

I do a good deal of my reading at home, and I don't like to go out again after I have crawled up four flights of stairs, so my landlady sends me up a light supper at just about this hour. There is the maid now," as a light knock was heard on the door.

Leopold opened it, and the domestic brought in a tray with a pot of tea and the ingredients of a light repast, which she placed upon another table near a window.

"There is always enough for two," said Leopold. "Reading is mighty tiresome work, and listening is too, and a cup of good strong tea will brighten us both up immensely. You can come back for the tray in fifteen minutes, Jennie," said Ernest.

The supper was finished, the tray removed, and the critic sat in judgment once more upon the words that fell from the reader's lips.

Leopold's face lighted up during the reading of "Her Native Land." He started to speak, and the word "That's--" escaped him, but he recovered himself and said no more, though he listened intently.

Quincy took a gla.s.s of wine and a cracker before starting upon the story which had been dictated to him. Leopold gave no sign of falling asleep, but patted his hands lightly together at certain points in the story, whether contemplatively or approvingly Quincy could not determine. As he read the closing lines of the last ma.n.u.script the cuckoo clock struck twelve, midnight.

"You are a mighty good reader, Quincy," said Leopold, "and barring fifteen minutes for refreshments, you have been at it ten hours. Now you want my opinion of those stories, and what's more, you want my advice as to the best place to put them to secure their approval and early publication. Now I am going to smoke a cigar quietly and think the whole thing over, and at half past twelve I will give you my opinion in writing. I am going into my library for half an hour to write down what I have to say. You take a nap on the lounge there, and you will be refreshed when I come back after having made mince meat of your poor, beautiful, blind _protege_."

Leopold disappeared into the library, and Quincy stretching himself on the lounge, rested, but did not sleep. Before he had realized that ten minutes had pa.s.sed, Leopold stood beside him with a letter sheet in his hand, and said, "Now, Quincy, read this to me, and I will see if I have got it down straight."

Quincy's hand trembled nervously as he seated himself in his old position and turning the sheet so that the light would fall upon it, he read the following:

Opinion of Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic, of certain ma.n.u.scripts submitted for examination by Quincy A. Sawyer, with some advice gratis.

1. Series of eight stories. Mighty clever general idea; good stories well written. Same style maintained throughout; good plots. Our house could not handle them--not of our line. Send to ----. (Here followed the name of a New York publisher.) I will write Cooper, one of their readers. He is a friend of mine, and will secure quick decision, which, I prophesy, will be favorable.

2. "Her Native Land" is a fine story. I can get it into a weekly literary paper that our house publishes. I know Jameson, the reader, will take it, especially if you would give him the right to dramatize it. He is hand and glove with all the theatre managers and has had several successes.

3. That story about the Duke, I want for our magazine. It is capital, and has enough meat in it to make a full-blown novel. All it wants is oysters, soup, fish, entrees, and a dessert prefixed to and joined on to the solid roast and game which the story as now written itself supplies.

In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this 24th day of February, 186--.

LEOPOLD ERNST, Literary Critic.

Quincy remained all night with Leopold, sleeping on the bed lounge in the sitting-room. He was up at six o'clock the next morning, but found that his friend was also an early riser, for on entering the library he saw the latter seated at his desk regarding the pile of ma.n.u.script which Quincy had read to him.

Leopold looked up with a peculiar expression on his face.

"What's the matter," asked Quincy, "changing your mind?"

"No," said Leopold, "I never do that, it would spoil my value as a reader if I did. My decisions are as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and are regarded by literary aspirants as being quite as severe as the statutes of Draco; but the fact is, Quincy, you and your _protege_--you see I consider you equally culpable--have neglected to put any real name or pseudonym to these interesting stories. Of course I can affix the name of the most popular author that the world has ever known,--Mr. Anonymous,--but you two probably have some pet name that you wish immortalized."

"By George!" cried Quincy, "we did forget that. I will talk it over with her, and send you the _nom de plume_ by mail.

"Very well," said Leopold, rising. "And now let us go and have some breakfast."

"My dear fellow, you must excuse me. I have not seen my parents this trip, and I ought to go up to the house and take breakfast with the family."

"All right," said Leopold, "rush that pseudonym right along, so I can send the ma.n.u.scripts to Cooper. And don't forget to drop in and see me next time you come to the city."

On his way to Beacon Street Quincy suddenly stopped and regarded a sign that read, Paul Culver, M.D., physician and surgeon. He knew Culver, but hadn't seen him for eight years. They were in the Latin School together under _pater_ Gardner. He rang the bell and was shown into Dr. Culver's office, and in a few minutes his old schoolmate entered. Paul Culver was a tall, broad-chested, heavily-built young man, with frank blue eyes, and hair of the color that is sometimes irreverently called, or rather the wearers of it are called, towheads.

They had a pleasant talk over old school days and college experiences, which were not identical, for Paul had graduated from Yale College at his father's desire, instead of from Harvard. Then Quincy broached what was upper-most in his mind and which had been the real reason for his call. He stated briefly the facts concerning Alice's case, and asked Paul's advice.

Dr. Culver salt for a few moments apparently in deep study.

"My advice," said he, "is to see Tillotson. He has an office in the Hotel Pelham, up by the Public Library, you know."

"Is he a 'regular'?" asked Quincy.

"Well," said Culver, "I don't think he is. For a fact I know he is not an M.D., but I fancy that the diploma that be holds from the Almighty is worth more to suffering humanity than a good many issued by the colleges."

"You are a pretty broad-minded allopath," said Quincy, "to give such a sweeping recommendation to a quack."