"Fool!" it said, "how can you hesitate? Here is your position: you have made a contract which must be filled; you are already behind, and in a hopeless mental state. Even granting that between this and to-morrow morning you could put together the necessary number of words to fill the space allotted to you, what kind of a thing do you think that story would make? It would be a mere raving like that other precious effort of August. The public, if by some odd chance it ever reached them, would think your mind was utterly gone; your reputation would go with that verdict. On the other hand, if you do not have the story ready by to-morrow, your hold on the _Idler_ will be destroyed. They have their announcements printed, and your name and portrait appear among those of the prominent contributors. Do you suppose the editor and publisher will look leniently upon your failure?" "Considering my past record, yes," I replied. "I have never yet broken a promise to them." "Which is precisely the reason why they will be severe with you. You, who have been regarded as one of the few men who can do almost any kind of literary work at will--you, of whom it is said that your 'brains are on tap'--will they be lenient with _you?_ Bah! Can't you see that the very fact of your invariable readiness heretofore is going to make your present unreadiness a thing incomprehensible?" "Then what shall I do?" I asked. "If I can't, I can't, that is all." "You can. There is the story in your hands. Think what it will do for you. It is one of the immortal stories--" "You have read it, then?" I asked. "Haven't you?" "Yes--but--" "It is the same," it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug. "You and I are inseparable. Aren't you glad?" it added, with a laugh that grated on every fibre of my being. I was too overwhelmed to reply, and it resumed: "It is one of the immortal stories. We agree to that. Published over your name, your name will live. The stuff you write yourself will give you present glory; but when you have been dead ten years people won't remember your name even--unless I get control of you, and in that case there is a very pretty though hardly a literary record in store for you." Again it laughed harshly, and I buried my face in the pillows of my couch, hoping to find relief there from this dreadful vision. "Curious," it said. "What you call your decent self doesn't dare look me in the eye! What a mistake people make who say that the man who won't look you in the eye is not to be trusted! As if mere brazenness were a sign of honesty; really, the theory of decency is the most amusing thing in the world. But come, time is growing short. Take that story. The writer gave it to you. Begged you to use it as your own. It is yours. It will make your reputation, and save you with your publishers. How can you hesitate?" "I shall not use it!" I cried, desperately. "You must--consider your children. Suppose you lose your connection with these publishers of yours?"