Julian slid to the floor, drained the almost empty teapot, rescued the last kidney, and began his breakfast. “I would have suggested it,” he said, “if the idea had been worth anything.” “What! What’s wrong with it?” “My dear man, it’s too risky. It’s not as though you kept to one form of literary work. You’re so confoundedly versatile. Let’s suppose you did sign your work with a _nom de plume_.” “Say, George Chandos.” “All right. George Chandos. Well, how long would it be, do you think, before paragraphs appeared, announcing to the public, not only of England but of the Channel Islands, that George Chandos was really Jimmy Cloyster?” “What rot!” I said. “Why the deuce should they want to write paragraphs about me? I’m not a celebrity. You’re talking through your hat, Julian.” Julian lit his pipe. “Not at all,” he said. “Count the number of people who must necessarily be in the secret from the beginning. There are your publishers, Prodder and Way. Then there are the editors of the magazine which publishes your Society dialogue bilge, and of all the newspapers, other than the _Orb_, in which your serious verse appears. My dear Jimmy, the news that you and George Chandos were the same man would go up and down Fleet Street and into the Barrel like wildfire. And after that the paragraphs.” I saw the truth of his reasoning before he had finished speaking. Once more my spirits fell to the point where they had been before I hit upon what I thought was such a bright scheme. Julian’s pipe had gone out while he was talking. He lit it again, and spoke through the smoke: “The weak point of your idea, of course, is that you and George Chandos are a single individual.” “But why should the editors know that? Why shouldn’t I simply send in my stuff, typed, by post, and never appear myself at all?” “My dear Jimmy, you know as well as I do that that wouldn’t work. It would do all right for a bit. Then one morning: ‘Dear Mr. Chandos,—I should be glad if you could make it convenient to call here some time between Tuesday and Thursday.—Yours faithfully. Editor of Something-or-other.’ Sooner or later a man who writes at all regularly for the papers is bound to meet the editors of them. A successful author can’t conduct all his business through the post. Of course, if you chucked London and went to live in the country——” “I couldn’t,” I said. “I simply couldn’t do it. London’s got into my bones.” “It does,” said Julian. “I like the country, but I couldn’t live there. Besides, I don’t believe I could write there—not for long. All my ideas would go.” Julian nodded. “Just so,” he said. “Then exit George Chandos.” “My scheme is worthless, you think, then?” “As you state it, yes.” “You mean——?” I prompted quickly, clutching at something in his tone which seemed to suggest that he did not consider the matter entirely hopeless.