corners of his mouth. He was ready to break the port decanter upon Dunkle's skull. But he would not have been an Archdeacon had he not learnt to control his feelings. So he swallowed down his rage, made his voice as soft as silk, and said: "I have told you, Dunkle, that there is no question of publishing my story under my own name. I fear, from what you have said, that there is not much chance of my publishing it under yours. Or am I wrong?"
"As to that," said Dunkle, "all depends on what price you are prepared to pay for the accommodation. I suppose you are determined to produce this book."
"Absolutely," said the Archdeacon. "I may add that your adverse and, I believe, jealous criticism doesn't weigh a hair with me. I am not to be convinced that 'Trixie' is valueless by the verdict of one reader.
