Archdeacon, they'll simply think that you've suddenly gone off your castors—that's all they'll think. There's not a living soul that'll accept your story."
The Archdeacon halted by the window to stare distastefully at his son-in-law. "Bisham," he said at last, "you have your price. Name it." And off he went again at five miles an hour.
"Another novel," said Dunkle. "A manuscript on which I can raise ten thousand pounds advance royalties from Cappers. A book which will bring me in another fifty or sixty thousand to clear Chloë and me of debt and set us on our feet for the rest of our lives. Once we're out of debt we shall draw in our horns considerably. We've had our fling, and we'll be content to live much more simply from now on. So write me a successor to 'Trixie,' Archdeacon, and I promise that,
