“Make a note—please. Mr. Pybus’s novel to be seen by the end of September. Three short stories to be submitted. If satisfactory—an offer of two a month at eight guineas—each. Got it?” “Yes, sir.” “Nice lad—that. It is so much pleasanter to do things for the right people. Now, what the blazes are we to do about that buccaneering blackguard, Corthrow?” Lance was descending the stairs. He had been offered a chance such as few young men receive. He had but to keep his word, and Richmond would be to him a literary godfa…
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