R. WILBUR," I said earnestly when I faced him for the third time in his office, "will you let me go out selling the popular edition?"
"Well," he said hesitatingly, "I have nothing to do with the sale of that edition. I suppose you could easily enough get in with those people. But what are your reasons for wishing to drop the de-luxe set?"
"I do not know whether I can discuss that with you," I replied. "What I do know is that I can sell the book on its merits, quite apart from any bibliophile considerations."
"Certainly," Mr. Wilbur agreed. "But you can sell the de-luxe edition on its merits just as well, in spite of all the bibliophile considerations." He smiled at my quaint wording while repeating it. "The point is this: can you sell the books to people who have more money than is good for them? I think you can; if I am right, you should do so; for your own good as well as ours." He looked at me, searchingly, it seemed; and puzzled, too. "Let me clear up a point," he went on. "I suppose it was a mistake to send you out with Williams. He happened to be handy, that is all. Williams is a good enough fellow as they go; but I am afraid he is rather a snob, and apparently he has displeased you."
"It isn't Mr. Williams," I replied. "I should not choose him for my friend, no matter what he might be doing. But I do not expect to find on your staff only men who are congenial to me."
"Well," said Mr. Wilbur, "what is it?"
"If you must know," I yielded to his insistence, though it exasperated me, "it's the method. I'll give you one

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example. Mr. Williams stated to Mr. Kirsty that there were just four sets of the edition left."
Mr. Wilbur laughed; then he frowned. "But permit me, my dear Mr. Branden," he said; "we are not responsible for what one of our agents says in order to clinch a sale. Mr. Williams directed us to ship a set to Mr. Kirsty, at fourteen hundred dollars. We do so because we have no reason to doubt that the sale was made in a perfectly regular way. There, as far as we are concerned, the matter ends, provided we receive, in due time, a cheque for the amount. Do not for a moment believe that I countenance sharp practice. We want you to sell the books. We pay you a very liberal commission for doing so. In return you have to work out your own plans. This is a different proposition from the Travellogues. We do not ask you to memorize a canvass and to deliver it letter-perfect. Our customers would not stand for such crude, methods. I am sure you can sell the books. If you do not think so, that is entirely your own business. I do not ask you to say anything that is not strictly conformable to your own standards of honesty. We have never yet heard a complaint from a customer who bought the books from Mr. Williams. He is one of our most successful salesmen. I know he is making a fortune. I do not enquire into his selling methods, though what you tell me shocks me greatly. But I have nothing whatever to do with that end of it. Should a customer complain, on the grounds of misrepresentation, we should simply ask him to return the set at our expense; and we should refund the money. That seems perfectly fair, does it not? You say you can sell the books on its merits. Very well, do so. I think you have the appearance and the approach, the tact, let me say, to sell to a class of people who, as a rule, do not buy books in order to read them. They buy as collectors, probably as collectors who do not know very much about what they are collecting. They do it because it is fashionable. Others buy rare etchings, paintings, or precious stones. We merely give you, if you want to look at it

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that way, an additional selling-point. But we do not object at all to selling the books for the purpose of being read. They are good enough to be read; that is more than can be said of a great many other books sold in the same way. I am in this business in order to make money; I am glad to say that I am making it. I sell a high-priced de-luxe edition for one reason only; there is more money in doing so than there is in selling a popular set. There is nothing unethical in supplying a demand, is there, now?"
"I suppose not," I sighed. I could see no flaw in Mr. Wilbur's reasoning. "You make me feel as if I owed you an apology."
"Not at all," Mr. Wilbur replied. "I understand your attitude perfectly. As I said, it was a mistake to send you out with Mr. Williams. But I did not know it myself."
"When do you want me to start?" I asked.
Mr. Wilbur smiled good-naturedly. "That sounds better," he said and pressed a button, waiting for his secretary.
"Miss Donahue," he said when she entered, "what was that enquiry we had from a New England doctor?"
"Oh," she said, "Dr. Watson, Willowtown, Connecticut."
"That's the man. Please announce Mr. Branden's visit to him. For Thursday, let me say. Will that suit you, Mr. Branden?"
"Certainly," I said, "if I can reach him by that time."
"Yes; you run down to New Haven and make connections there. All right then, Miss Donahue. Better send the letter at once."
There the matter of my scruples ended for the time being. I spent the night in New Haven, and the next day made a small manufacturing town in central Connecticut.
The following morning I engaged a team and had myself driven out to a small residential village which had all the charms of a New England hillside.

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I found the doctor in, though he did not expect me.
"You did not get my wire?" he asked when I gave him my name.
He was a tall, strong, active man with the pleasantest face and a brilliant smile which bared gold-glittering teeth.
"Too bad," he said. "The day after I wrote to your house I bought a farm. That ties me up. I could not think of buying books at the present time; much as my fingers itch for them. I did not think either that they would send a man expressly to see me."
"Don't let that worry you, doctor," I replied. "It does not matter. But since I am here, I should like to show you what I have got."
He looked at his watch. "Why yes," he said. "I'll be glad to listen. Come in."
I gave him a strong canvass on the work itself.
"That is the gem," I said at last, "now comes the setting. But I don't know whether to go on. Maybe I am taking up your time?"
He laughed. "Seems to me I'm taking up yours," he said. "I like to listen to you. You know the books."
He followed my explanations like a child, frequently stopping me to look again at a photograph or a sample page, and exclaiming delightedly whenever something struck his fancy.
"How much of a fortune does that thing cost?" he enquired at last.
I stated the price of the various bindings.
He was full of regret. "Too bad," he repeated. "Too bad. But I can't think of it. Not at present."
"Maybe at some future time," I suggested; "if we are not sold out by then."
"Yes, yes," he said. "They won't let a book like that run out of print. They'll get up a cheap edition when this one is exhausted. I must have another chance at it." He was pensive for a few seconds. Say," he went on, "can you offer a set to anybody else? A college-friend of mine happens to be in town. You know him by name;

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Mr. -- " He named a member of Mr. Harrison's entourage who stood even then rather high in Federal politics and who has since been directing the nation's destinies. "I should like to give him a chance to look at this. Would you show it to him?"
"I might," I said.
"Good. Wait a moment. I'll call him up and tell him about it."
"Sure," he said when he came back. "He wants you to come right up. It will be noon when you get through. Come back here and have dinner at the house. I know Mrs. Watson will be delighted. I'll put you on the road. Meanwhile I shall have to make a call myself."
He reached for his hat and satchel, and we went out.
I had a most pleasant interview with the young statesman. I gave him the same talk as Dr. Watson and showed him the different bindings more as the appropriate setting of something which was worthy of being set well, than as the thing which in itself constituted what I had to sell. Nor did I, when I had finished, press a sale.
The young statesman's brother, with whom he visited, came in, a tall man in the prime of life whose sparse body contrasted strangely with that of my prospect who was even then inclined to obesity. This brother was a scholar, a member of one of the leading universities.
The conversation at once became general, with European conditions for its theme.
When I rose, stating that the Watsons expected me for dinner, the statesman asked me a few more questions about the work and finally requested me to have one of the five hundred dollar sets forwarded to his brother's address, signing a contract by which he agreed to pay for it in five instalments of one hundred dollars each. I was not prepared for any such arrangement but judged that I could safely accept it on my own responsibility.
An equally pleasant dinner-hour followed at Dr. Watson's. When, there, too, I rose to go, the doctor asked me whether I could show the prospectus to still another

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friend of his, the station agent of the village. I hesitated this time, but agreed that no harm could come from showing him.
I went to see the agent.
A tall, elderly man received me, saying with a laugh that Dr. Watson had get his ears atingle with talking of the books.
I told him I was transgressing my authority in showing him the set; but, since I had done so already in selling the young statesman, I thought it only right to repeat the offence.
"You sold him, eh?" he said. And when I had given him my canvass, he jumped up and exclaimed, "I must have that thing. Excuse me a moment, will you?" and disappeared into the rooms beyond.
When he returned, he stated that he had talked it over with his wife.
"Tell you what I'll do," he said. "I take the cheapest set, of course. It's the books I want, not the bindings. I'll give you a cheque for fifty dollars now, one hundred on delivery, and the balance when it suits me within ninety days. That should be satisfactory."
I thought so; the sale was closed.
I sent a wire to Mr. Wilbur, and set out for New York, which I reached the following day.
I felt a trifle uneasy about these sales. The question of partial payments had never been mentioned.
To my astonishment Mr. Wilbur did not waste a word on that side of the question. He simply congratulated me on my success. But he disapproved of my having sold at the lowest figure.
"It is just as easy," he kept repealing, "to sell an eight or nine hundred dollar set as a five hundred dollar one. There is a weakness. The edition being limited, it means a loss to us if we have to part with a set at the lowest figure. I suppose you will get over that. You have made no promise with regard to the numbers?"

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"None," I said laughingly, for I could not remember having said a word about the limited nature of the edition.
I was immediately sent out again, this time with three addresses, in Cleveland, Lansing, and Grand Rapids. Within a week I returned, having wasted my time, energy and money, for I did not bring an order. When I set out on this trip, I had a little over a hundred and fifty dollars; when I came back I had less than fifty.
Mr. Wilbur was perfectly polite about it.
"You can't always sell, that goes without saying. Don't worry. We have to find out what class of people contains your customers."
"Scholars," I said promptly.
Mr. Wilbur rubbed his forehead with a rueful smile. "The trouble is, few scholars will buy our set. They are, as a rule, not blessed with worldly goods."
"Have you any calls for me on hand?" I enquired.
"I don't know," he answered. "We have a number of cards; but I believe they are more in the line of some of our other agents. We better wait a day or so."
I took courage. "Mr. Wilbur," I said, leaning forward. "Suppose I strike out for myself?"
"What do you mean? Work on a straight canvass?"
"Yes," I replied. "The only two orders which I have brought in so far were obtained on a straight canvass."
"I don't believe you'd get the orders."
"I feel sure of it."
"People have learned to distrust the agent who comes around and offers expensive things."
"They do not mistrust me."
"Where would you want to go?"
"New England," I said. "Let me try. I'll go out for two weeks. I shall not ask you for any money beyond my commissions. If I do not land an order within two weeks, I'll come in and acknowledge defeat."
"Very well," he agreed -- "we'll try."
Accordingly I ran down to New Haven again.
Spring was advancing; my feeling of insecurity was

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submerged in the enjoyment of landscape and salt-air. I took long trolley-rides and cross-country drives. I was nearly at the end of my funds when I took quarters at Waterbury, the city of watches. I even remember the Elton Hotel at which I stopped.
Again I made two sales in one day; one to a young, rising manufacturer in the city; the other to a schoolsuperintendent somewhere in the Naugatuck Valley. The latter was an approval-sale; but it stood. Again both orders were for the cheapest set; and both were obtained strictly on the merits of the work. The commissions pulled me out of a difficulty, for I could not have liquidated my bill at the hotel without selling the remainder of my wardrobe had I not made a sale in the nick of time.
There was really no necessity for me to patronize the best hotels. There was no reason either why I should have taken a Pullman-seat for every train-ride. But such is the power of suggestion in this land of waste that it never occurred to me to do otherwise. Mr. Williams had succeeded in linking the work up with high living.
Thus, for the time being, Mr. Wilbur acquiescing in my ways, I settled down once more into something of a routine. Orders came, but they came sparingly; they paid for my living. Thus I explain the fact that details of my work are lacking henceforth in my memory of the season's activities.
Again I read a good deal; and, since my income seemed to keep pace with my expenditures, no matter how much or how little I spent -- I simply lived up to my income -- I began to read, not only magazines, but books.
I roamed the New England coast. I remember summer days at Old Orchard Beach, a cruise or so in Casco Bay, drowsy mornings in Cape Cod fishing-hamlets; altogether a summer which resembled a holiday of my old days in Europe more than American "hustling". I was due for an awakening.
The time of the first anniversary of my immigration came around. This occasion brought with it retrospection

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and the onlooker's criticism. What had I gained? A little knowledge beyond the lines of that book-learning with which I had been equipped before I came. Graft and Sharp Practice I had become familiar with. To the types of Hannan and Howard and to that of Tinker, a third one had been added and stood out in sharp relief; that of the snob, of the newly-rich. And he, take it all-in-all, was merely one of the dupes of the former two. The immigrant sees only that which strikes him forcibly.
Where did I stand, I personally? I closed my eyes to this question. I felt a curious world-weariness from which I tried to escape by immerging myself in a languid sort of sympathy with nature. This sentimental response to Nature's moods, however, could not last; it might do in summer-time; but winter was going to come. Then I should be thrown again with men, living men or man embalmed in books.
I must record an adventure which was entirely an adventure with books.
I have already mentioned that I had conceived a great love for Lincoln. There is nothing strange about a young man's enthusiasm for a hero of history. It was not that. My enthusiasm had little to do with the man's achievements: it had little in common with the American boy's school-fostered hero-worship. It was a passion which took hold of me, a passion which longed for self-effacement. Had Lincoln been among the living, I should have been glad to walk across a continent in order to be near him, to serve him, unbeknown to himself. The fact that he had been assassinated seemed an enormity far beyond the mere enormity of an ordinary murder, such as in itself to make the idea of a Providence a mere mockery. The smallest of his words seemed pregnant with the innermost being of the man. There was a truth and a simplicity about every statement of his, far beyond the powers of any statesman of Europe; a others seemed to be fops as compared with him. His speeches I knew by heart; his features were as familiar and present to me as the reflect-

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tion of my face in the glass. To him I applied what Wordsworth had said of Milton.
Was Lincoln an accident? Was there in this America a soil from which he had grown? I had not found it. If there was, to find it should be the task of my life.
One day something terrible happened; that is to say, it seemed terrible to me. In my miscellaneous reading I ran across an account of Matthew Arnold's visit to America, Arnold had called at the White House in Washington; and, from the great height of his European "culture" had coolly broken the staff over Lincoln by calling him "crude". A horror seized me when I read that, a horror as may seize a man, a clean, honest, straight-thinking man, when he listens in while some grotesque miscarriage of justice is being enacted. I remember how I got up, searched for Arnold's "Essays in Criticism", and threw them into the fire-place of my hotel-room after touching a match to it. By this word, by this judgment Arnold had broken the staff, not over Lincoln, but over himself; and not only over himself, but over that whole culture-medium from which he came; and quite consciously I took the word "culture-medium" in its bacteriological sense as a name for Europe's spiritual atmosphere; it seemed to express so well what I thought of Europe at the moment.
This afternoon marked an epoch in my life. Like a flash-light, suddenly turned on some figure standing veiled in the dark, it illuminated for me that which I was searching for: the real America. In its light my whole past and present stood condemned.
I remember also that I thought ruefully of the fact that only a few months ago I had used Arnold's very word in condemnation of what I had seen of this New World. I am afraid there was still a good deal of spiritual pride even in this attitude. Unconsciously I was classing myself side by side with Lincoln, as opposed to that part of America which had wounded and hurt me. I looked down at my clothes; I looked at my present life; I longed to be on the hills and the plains, clad in rags, feeling at

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one with the clouds and the stars, with beetling mountaincliff and hollow in the ground.
This day changed my aims; though not with any immediate effect; it cut me loose from Europe.
By a sort of inertia I went on for some time longer. My moorings were loosened, it is true; but it took the riving thunderbolt to sever them completely.
A more or less immediate effect of my mental preoccupations was that my sales fell off. At last. in the height of summer, I was in debt again. For a week or two I had to use my drawing account to tide me over.
I went to New York to talk matters over.
Mr. Wilbur received me. He seemed a changed man, nervous, exhausted; I attributed it to my bad record.
"You seem to be going to pieces," he said. "We'll have to look into that. For the moment I want you to go north with Mr. Williams once more."
"The fact is, I have troubles and worries of my own," I said. "My work will pick up again."
"Your work has been good on the whole," Mr. Wilbur replied. "I believe you are too much alone. So long as a salesman averages one or two orders a month, we have nothing to complain of. As it happens, we have three enquiries from up-state. I have special reasons why I want you to go with Williams. I can't explain. A situation may arise with which one man alone may not be able to cope."
"I'm willing, of course," I said. "I'll do anything you wish me to do. But might it not be better to give us full details?
"No," he replied. "I prefer not to explain."
Williams and I took a day-train for the ten-hours' run. Mostly we read; occasionally we talked. Naturally, when we conversed, we "talked shop". To my surprise, Mr. Williams intimated his intention of leaving Mr. Wilbur and going into business on his own account. He, too, seemed nervous and apprehensive. I could not understand it at all.

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"This scheme has been overworked," he said. "It's time to quit."
"Do you mean to say that there is no market any longer?"
Mr. Williams laughed that contemptuous laugh whose sting I knew so well. "Market? There's no end of the market in sight. There's one born every minute, you know. But I think it's getting dangerous to plant three sets in one small town. Wilbur is getting gay; it's time to cut loose."
A sinking feeling took hold of me. Thus, I suppose, the aviator feels when he realizes that he has lost control of his plane.
"I have an idea," Williams went on, pensively, "that Wilbur knows it, too; he wants to grab what is in sight and to retire. He's made a pretty penny, God knows. I have an idea that I can do as well; and I want to do it on the level. I'm not afraid of work, as Wilbur has always been."
"Just a moment," I said, "Do you mean to say that this thing is not on the level?"
"This? What? Wilbur's scheme?" he asked and chuckled. "You're green, Branden. But I do like your innocence. I'll tell you. Just listen to this. Wilbur sells through agents; he prefers such as you. If he sold through the mails, the Post-office authorities would get him. He probably gave you a lot of hot air about his unwillingness to let you go out on a straight canvass. You mustn't believe all he says. He wants the innocent ones. He's got half a dozen or more like yourself; don't think for a moment you are the only one; you're not. He's glad when he gets your kind. He'd drop me like a red-hot poker if I didn't know too much about him. More than that, I've been thinking he must be up to some trick since he sends you out with me again. He says of course, you've gone to pieces and need jacking-up. But three calls from one town, that seems fishy. I had half a mind to give him the slip and not run up at all."

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"Mr. Williams," I said, "I am dense, I suppose. Would you mind telling me just where the trick in all this lies?"
I feel sure it was merely pity with my lack of experience which induced Mr. Williams to vouchsafe the desired information. I give him credit for being more kindhearted than I had thought him to be.
He gave a short laugh and went on, "Not at all. In the first place, the so-called de-luxe edition is nothing but the so-called popular set. Wilbur merely buys, at wholesale prices -- at twenty-four dollars, to be exact -- some one or two hundred sets of that edition, whatever he may think he needs. He tears the buckram bindings off and sticks his bindings on, after having added a flyleaf with the famous number."
"But the Holland paper?" I broke in, incredulous in the face of such a revelation.
Mr. Williams sat up and looked reproachfully across at me. "Ever seen a set?" he asked.
"No," I replied; "come to think of it, I never have. I've seen only empty bindings."
"Of course," Mr. Williams nodded. "The paper is deckle-edged; but it is machine-made right here in this state of New York. Do you know Van Geldern when you see it?"
"I do," I said.
"Well," he went on; "this looks like it. But search for the water-mark, and you won't find it. Anybody who really knows paper feels the difference on the spot. He has never yet sold to a paper-man."
"And the hand-painted illustrations?"
"Down there, at their office, they have some fifty young ladies sitting who colour the half-tones at the rate of twenty an hour, or the boss wants to know the reason why. Water-colours, same as coloured picture-cards."
I was speechless and did not dare to enquire about the bindings, for fear of having to listen to more such revelations. But Mr. Williams was heartless now.
"The whole thing is a con-game on a gigantic scale,

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operated with the help of two factors," he said, "the gullibility of the well-to-do, and the innocence of milk-sops as yourself. Of course, there's something genuine about it, or your poor fish would not bite. Why, he's been selling this thing through such as yourself for six or ten years, at all kinds of prices, getting rich on the fat of the land. He shows you the bindings, and they are the only thing that's worth a Tinker's damn in the whole get-up. He has to spend some fifty dollars or so a set on that. As for myself, I've been in it so long I've got used to it; while I'm making money, I have no kick. The public seems satisfied to be bled. Only, I can't understand why he is getting so darn careless. Three sets in a small town, that's more than I should risk, with the whole U.S. full of suckers to choose from. At least, when you're screwing the prices up so that it amounts to wholesale robbery."
"Well," I objected, "if the thing were honest otherwise, I could not see anything wrong in it if he sold every citizen in a one-horse town of five hundred."
"Greed I call it," exclaimed Mr. Williams. "People are bound to get together in the long run and compare notes. Duplications in numbers are apt to crop out."
"Duplications?" I asked stupidly.
"Of course," he said. "You don't for a moment fall for that gaff about a limited edition, do you? The thing has been sold, as I said, for more than six years. The swallowing capacity of the public is its only limit. At first Wilbur may not have thought of going beyond a thousand copies at a hundred and fifty per. But the first fifty thousand which he cleared came too easily. He branched out, got a sumptuous office, a car, and so on. He actually seemed to fill a demand. I tell you, whenever he steps out, he'll first salt down a cool million or so."
After this, we did not talk any longer. I felt as if the earth under my feet had given way. I could have cried with blind fury.
We were passing through the landscape of the upper part of the state. A year ago I had passed through it, too,

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on my first, ill-fated trip to New York. I thought of that trip and of what the interval had brought. Sometimes to-day, in thinking back, over the gulf of the years, of the days of my childhood, I feel a similar contrast. Joy, innocence, the length of days, the unbounded confidence in myself, all that is gone. Weariness, the rapid succession of seasons, a doubtful appraisal of myself -- that is what has taken its place. I had no eyes for the Adirondacks, none for river-valley and gorge. Again there was a veil of gloom over everything, that smoky haze which had lain over Hudson River and Palisades, that morning in Riverside Park. Where did I stand? What was I to do?
I thought of the orders which I had taken during the spring and early summer. The enjoyment of those rambles through the New England hills was spoiled even in memory. I could not think of Dr. Watson and his friends but with shame. Why was it that the memory of pleasant encounters had to be soiled and sullied for me through none of my fault? Was I indeed destined to be ground to pieces?
I was not going to partake in the business at our destination. But I had a return-ticket and, therefore, might just as well go on and sit in the train as anywhere else. It was just that: I did no longer dare to touch anything. If with my best intentions I had succeeded only in becoming the involuntary accomplice of a swindler, what was I to do? Already a year and more of my life on American soil had been hopelessly wasted!
We arrived in our town and registered in the best hotel.
Strange to say, after supper even Williams seemed to be in a softer mood than was usual with him. I told him I was not going to go on with it.
"I don't know as I blame you," he said. "But listen here, Branden. Come along with me to-morrow. I feel shaky myself. I'll consider it as a favour. Since you've come along so far, don't leave me just now. I was a fool to come out. Hunches are nonsense, of course. But I'm unnerved. To you nothing can happen, you know."

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"If it's any help to you," I said, "I'll see you through."
"Thanks," he replied.
Nobody could have said that I had had no warning.
Next morning Mr. Williams arranged for an interview with one of our three prospects. The hour named was three o'clock in the afternoon.
When we arrived at the address, a stenographer took our cards into an inner office. We were told to enter.
The room into which we came was a small, private office, the greater part of the floor-space being taken up by a large flat-topped desk in golden oak. At the centre of one side of it sat a heavy man with clean-shaven face and short-cropped grey hair. Opposite him sat two men, one tall and slender, the other medium-sized and somewhat stout; both were reclining in arm-chairs; the taller of the two was smoking.
I felt at once that a storm was in the air when I saw the three pairs of eyes which were fixed upon us as we entered.
"Mr. Williams?" the one who sat by himself enquired, rising.
Mr. Williams acknowledged his identity by shaking hands.
"And Mr. Branden?" the man went on, turning to me. Then he named his two friends by way of introduction.
The three men on whom we were to call were assembled here! That could not possibly be without significance.
"Whom of you two am I to address?" the man at the desk asked with a smile. "Or do you both represent the North American Historians?"
I noticed that the taller one of the other two had drawn a sheet of foolscap towards himself; he was ready to take notes.
"I am responsible here," said Mr. Williams, turning pale; "Mr. Branden has just severed his connection with the house. He came along as my friend."
"Well, Mr. Williams " the stranger went on, "will you be kind enough to answer a few questions?"

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"I don't understand," said Williams. "I came to give you particulars about a set of books you were supposed to be interested in."
The stranger laughed. "I have the books," he said. "We all three have the books, and you know it." A motion of his hand embraced his two friends on the opposite side of the desk.
"That so?" said Mr. Williams with remarkable coolness. "I hope you like them."
The three men laughed.
"We do," the spokesman replied. "But, as I have said before, I have a question or two which I should like to have answered."
"Shoot," said Williams.
"You are selling a limited edition, are you not?"
"We are, of sorts."
"The sets are numbered?"
"They are."
"A strange thing has cropped out; quite by chance, as such things are apt to do."
"What is it?" Williams was getting impatient.
"This gentleman there and myself we have both the same number."
"What is the number?" Williams shot back.
"Fourteen," came the answer.
Williams laughed lightly. "But gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you are aware of the fact that quite a few people are superstitious and would not accept a set with the number thirteen. So it is our rule, in limited editions, to duplicate either the twelve or the fourteen."
The three men laughed again.
"You've got your nerve with you," the spokesman said at last. "If you can explain the other difficulties away as slickly as you did this one, we'll let you off; just for the fun of it. It was rather a mistake," he went on, turning to his friends, "to let these fellows know beforehand what it was about. They've had plenty of time to prepare their excuses."

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When Williams heard this remark, he sat up.
"What's that?" he snapped. "Did you write in to headquarters about your complaints?"
Again the three men laughed.
"Did we?" asked one of them.
But Williams was on his feet now. He bent forward with such an expression of earnestness on his face that their laughter died out.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I'll be brief. You have been the victims of a crooked game. I am only an agent. You don't want to get me; you want to get the crook."
"And let you skip? Not much. You sell the books. It's you we've got. We'll trace the rest of the gang through you."
"Never mind about me," Williams shouted. "I'll turn state's evidence I'll help you all I can. I was willing enough to shield the fellow; but now I tell you, get Wilbur before it's too late."
"How too late?"
"Don't you see that he is making his get-away?"
"How can you know unless you're in with him yourself?"
"By putting two and two together, gentlemen. For God's sake, don't waste time. Don't you see?" He spoke faster and faster. "Neither I nor Branden here were told anything at the New York office except that there were three prospects in this town. He sent us out because by doing so he kept you from going right after him and at the same time he got rid of us at New York. The dirty beggar tried to play us off for a chance to skip and to cover his tracks. He uses his agents and gets them into a beastly mess and expects them besides to go to jail for him. Take Branden here. Why did he send him up? Because he is innocent. Till yesterday he did not know that every word in the gaff he gives the suckers isn't gospel-truth. When I told him, he refused to go on with the work. I had a hunch that we should have trouble, and I begged him to

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come along, or he wouldn't be here. I'll turn state's evidence. But get him, Wilbur, the tricky skunk!"
He had spoken with such convincing vehemence that, when he finished, every one in the room was on his feet.
"I'll go," said the taller one of the friends and reached for his hat. "Wait for me here."
An anticlimax followed. Williams explained in detail how the scheme was worked. When the tall man returned they told me, after a short discussion conducted in a whisper, that they had agreed to leave me out of the proceedings. But for the time being I remained with them, for I was curious how things would develop.
Two hours later a messenger-boy appeared and handed the tall man a yellow envelope.
He tore it open, shrugged, and said, "Williams was right. The bird is flown."

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