"And contingent on--?" the costumer prompted. 

 "Contingent, yes, on the author's success." 

 "Sir! I am not the author of a manuscript fifty years old!" 

 "Well, then, on the holder's success. You can agree to that, can't you?" 

 "'Tis agreed. You are my counsel. When will you see the manuscript?" 

 "Whenever you choose to leave it with me." 

 The costumer's smile was firm: "Sir, I cannot permit that to pass from my hand." 

 "Oh! then have a copy typed for me." 

 The Creole soliloquized: "That would be expensive."  Then to Chester: "Sir, I will tell you; to-night come at our parlor, over the shop. I will read you that!"  "Shall we be alone?" asked Chester, hoping his client would say no. 

 "Only excepting my"--a tender brightness--"my wife!"  Then a shade of regret: "We are without children, me and my wife." 

 His wife. H'mm! She? That amazing one who had vanished within a few yards of his bazaar of "masques et costumes"? Though to Chester New Orleans was still new, and though fat law-books and a slim purse kept him much to himself, he was aware that, while some Creoles grew rich, many of them, women, once rich, were being driven even to stand behind counters. Yet no such plight could he imagine of that bewildering young--young luminary who, this second time, so out of time, had gleamed on him from mystery's cloud. His earlier hope came a third time: "Excepting only your wife, you say? Why not also your amateur expert?" 

 "I am sorry, but"--the Latin shrug--"that is--that is not possible." 

 "Have I ever seen your wife? She's not a tallish, slender young-----?" 

 "No, my wife is neither. She's never in the street or shop. She has no longer the cap-acity. She's become so extraordinarily un-slender that the only way she can come down-stair' is backward. You'll see. Well,"--he waved--"till then--ah, a word: my close bargaining--I must explain you that--in confidence.  'Tis because my wife and me we are anxious to get every picayune we can get for the owners--of that manuscript." 

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