He didn't care a hang what happened to the blighter.
"Well," he decided at last, "it's no use going on any longer in this way, that's certain. I am evidently incapable of writing a novel, and, however gratifying that discovery may, from one point of view, be, from another it is immensely tiresome. Money, and lots of it, I must have, or Chloë and I are bust. Yet how am I to get any unless I have a manuscript to show or at least a few chapters of one? How? How? How?"
At this moment a note was brought to him by his second footman. It was the Archdeacon's invitation to tea. He read it and smiled for the first time in a fortnight. "By gum!" he said, smiting his knee. "Here's how. He shall do it. He shall. I'll threaten to tell on him if he won't. I'll undertake to queer his
