But—"Why," he kept asking himself, "is the old cock telling me this? Why me?" He was soon to learn.
"Of course," the Archdeacon concluded, "a clergyman of my position and repute cannot come out as the author of a fiction. The thing's not to be done. You appreciate its hopeless impropriety? Yes? I thought you must. To publish anonymously or under a pseudonym won't do, either. The secret would not fail to leak out. What, then, is to be done, my dear Dunkle?"
"Why," said Dunkle, "the simplest and best thing is to put the manuscript on the fire. It is, you tell me, a hundred and fifty thousand words long. I should say that such a manuscript might be destroyed in half an hour or a little less. I have nothing to do this afternoon. Let me give you a hand. I will tear up the sheets and
