"Take these crude, loose, awkward, almost obscene Russian novels," continued Crane, "and see what a furor the critics of New York and Boston have fermented in their behalf, all because it chanced that a _coterie_ of Parisian literary _roués_ fancied the filthy imaginings of Dostoieffsky and the raw vulgarity of Tolstoï. What would they say of _you_, Ferris, if _you_ should write so low and dirty a story as _Crime and Its Punishment_ by Dostoieffsky?" "Oh, I don't know, and, begging your grace, I don't care a straw," Ferris replied; "the publishers would steal all my profits in any event." "Do you really believe that?" inquired Peck. "Believe it? I know it," said Ferris. "When did you ever know of a publisher advertising a book as in its fiftieth thousand so long as the author had any royalty on the sales? The only book of mine that ever had a run was one I sold outright in the manuscript to George Dunkirk & Co., who publish all my works. That puerile effort is now in its ninetieth thousand, while the best of the other six has not yet shown up two thousand! Do you catch the point?" "But what difference can printing a statement of the books sold make, anyway?" innocently inquired Miss Moyne. Ferris laughed. "All the difference in the world," he said; "the publisher would have to account to the author for all those thousands, don't you see." "But they have to account, anyhow," replied Miss Moyne, with a perplexed smile. "Account!" exclaimed Ferris, contemptuously; "account! yes, they have to account." "But they account to me," Miss Moyne gently insisted. "Who are your publishers?" he demanded. "George Dunkirk & Co.," was the answer. "Well," said he, "I'll wager you anything I can come within twenty of guessing the sales up to date of your book. It has sold just eleven hundred and forty copies." She laughed merrily and betrayed the dangerous closeness of his guess by coloring a little. "Oh, its invariably just eleven hundred and forty copies, no matter what kind of a book it is, or what publisher has it," he continued; "I've investigated and have settled the matter." The historian was suddenly thoughtful, little Mrs. Philpot appeared to be making some abstruse calculation, Crane was silently gazing at the ground and Peck, with grim humor in his small eyes, remarked that eleven hundred and forty was a pretty high average upon the whole. Just at this point a figure appeared in the little roadway where it made its last turn lapsing from the wood toward the hotel. A rather tall, slender and angular young woman, bearing a red leather bag in one hand and a blue silk umbrella in the other, strode forward with the pace of a _tragedienne_. She wore a bright silk dress, leaf-green in color, and a black bonnet, of nearly the Salvation Army pattern, was set far back on her head, giving full play to a mass of short, fine, loosely tumbled yellow hair.