“That’s what I’m here for,” Mr. Corby genially responded; “that is, if you’re willing to help me; for I can’t get on without your help,” he added with a confident smile. There was another pause, during which Miss Anson noticed a fleck of dust on the faded leather of the writing-table and a fresh spot of discoloration in the right-hand upper corner of Raphael Morghen’s “Parnassus.” “Then you believe in him?” she said, looking up. She could not tell what had prompted her; the words rushed out irresistibly. “Believe in him?” Corby cried, springing to his feet. “Believe in Orestes Anson? Why, I believe he’s simply the greatest--the most stupendous--the most phenomenal figure we’ve got!” The color rose to Miss Anson’s brow. Her heart was beating passionately. She kept her eyes fixed on the young man’s face, as though it might vanish if she looked away. “You--you mean to say this in your article?” she asked. “Say it? Why, the facts will say it,” he exulted. “The baldest kind of a statement would make it clear. When a man is as big as that he doesn’t need a pedestal!” Miss Anson sighed. “People used to say that when I was young,” she murmured. “But now--“ Her visitor stared. “When you were young? But how did they know--when the thing hung fire as it did? When the whole edition was thrown back on his hands?” “The whole edition--what edition?” It was Miss Anson’s turn to stare. “Why, of his pamphlet--_the_ pamphlet--the one thing that counts, that survives, that makes him what he is! For heaven’s sake,” he tragically adjured her, “don’t tell me there isn’t a copy of it left!” Miss Anson was trembling slightly. “I don’t think I understand what you mean,” she faltered, less bewildered by his vehemence than by the strange sense of coming on an unexplored region in the very heart of her dominion.