“I mean this. The weak spot in your idea, as I told you, is that you and George Chandos have the same body. Now, if you could manage to provide George with separate flesh and blood of his own, there’s no reason——” “By Jove! you’ve hit it. Go on.” “Listen. Here is my rough draft of what I think might be a sound, working system. How many divisions does your work fall into, not counting the _Orb_?” I reflected. “Well, of course, I do a certain amount of odd work, but lately I’ve rather narrowed it down, and concentrated my output. It seemed to me a better plan than sowing stuff indiscriminately through all the papers in London.” “Well, how many stunts have you got? There’s your serious verse—one. And your Society stuff—two. Any more?” “Novels and short stories.” “Class them together—three. Any more? “No; that’s all.” “Very well, then. What you must do is to look about you, and pick carefully three men on whom you can rely. Divide your signed stuff between these three men. They will receive your copy, sign it with their own names, and see that it gets to wherever you want to send it. As far as the editorial world is concerned, and as far as the public is concerned, they will become actually the authors of the manuscripts which you have prepared for them to sign. They will forward you the cheques when they arrive, and keep accounts to which you will have access. I suppose you will have to pay them a commission on a scale to be fixed by mutual arrangement. As regards your unsigned work, there is nothing to prevent your doing that yourself—‘On Your Way,’ I mean, whenever there’s any holiday work going: general articles, and light verse. I say, though, half a moment.” “Why, what?” “I’ve thought of a difficulty. The editors who have been taking your stuff hitherto may have a respect for the name of James Orlebar Cloyster which they may not extend to the name of John Smith or George Chandos, or whoever it is. I mean, it’s quite likely the withdrawal of the name will lead to the rejection of the manuscript.” “Oh no; that’s all right,” I said. “It’s the stuff they want, not the name. I don’t say that names don’t matter. They do. But only if they’re big names. Kipling might get a story rejected if he sent it in under a false name, which they’d have taken otherwise just because he was Kipling. What they want from me is the goods. I can shove any label on them I like. The editor will read my ghosts’ stuff, see it’s what he wants, and put it in. He may say, ‘It’s rather like Cloyster’s style,’ but he’ll certainly add, ‘Anyhow, it’s what I want.’ You can scratch that difficulty, Julian. Any more?” “I think not. Of course, there’s the objection that you’ll lose any celebrity you might have got. No one’ll say, ‘Oh, Mr. Cloyster, I enjoyed your last book so much!’” “And no one’ll say, ‘Oh, do you _write_, Mr. Cloyster? How interesting! What have you written? You must send me a copy.’”