Now! He says at my earliest convenience. At once! This minute! Good-bye! I'll call you up later. He rushed out of the library.
A half-hour later he walked into the office of the American Mars and asked the boy at the desk if he might see the editor. The boy responded by pushing a blank form across the desk with the nonchalant instruction, Fill that out. Byron obeyed. The boy disappeared with the slip of paper, to return presently with the invitation, Follow me.
Byron had not expected to meet so young a man. Russett Durwood possessed the sort of round, kind face to which widows might confide their secrets. His eyes were the colour that painters employ to suggest spring skies. His light-brown hair was parted in the middle smoothly over his heavy brow. His ears were prominent features. Between the fingers of his right hand he held a large, unlighted, black cigar which he flourished as he talked, or else sucked meditatively. His feet were planted on his scrupulously clean desk.
Shaking hands with Byron, he invited him to sit down.
I asked you to come in about your story, Durwood began in his resonant and cheerful voice.
Yes, Byron replied, with such eagerness that the tone trembled.
Durwood turned away and gazed out of the window. The view, terraces piled on terraces, was cer-
