Yes, all my premises seemed true: my deductions appeared to hold together. My logic and its upshot, in any event, contented me. What, I had begun by asking, does the author get out of it all? Well, I had found that unknown quantity; the equation now was solved; and _x_ amounted to, exactly, nothing. That was the mathematics of it: only, as you may recall, it had been revealed to me, through the aid of my small son, that mathematics too amounted to, exactly, nothing. And, besides, here also, in reaching this negation, I had most gratifyingly attained, in the same moment that I discredited, the aim of every valid author. For I had found, I reflected, even here, some rather interesting ideas to play with.... Yes, and my argument ended, neatly, with the day: for the clock behind me was now striking midnight.... FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 11: A prominent American littérateur of the period. The titles of many of his books have been preserved, such as _His Father's Son_, _The Last Meeting_, _A Secret of the Sea_, &c.] [Footnote 12: A newspaper writer of the day. He specialized in very short editorials, so notably preëminent, even in American journalism, for feeble-mindedness that these were published, simultaneously, by some fifty of the leading papers of the United States, and were read everywhere with edification.] [Footnote 13: Novelists of the day; authors of _Charles Rex_, _Janet March_, _Greatheart_, &c.] THE AUTHOR OF THE EAGLE'S SHADOW "To the citizens and all the realm I make this proclamation: for now have I moored my bark of life, and so will own myself a happy man. Many are the shapes that fortune takes, and oft the gods bring things to pass beyond our expectation. That which we deemed so sure is not fulfilled, while for that we never thought would be, Heaven finds out a way. And such hath been the issue in the present case." _The Author of The Eagle's Shadow_ § 94 "Would you advise me, sir," he was asking, "to become a regular writer--now?" For I had got just this far, and, as I have said, the clock behind me was just striking midnight, when I was interrupted by an unlooked-for visitor. Most writers, for their sins, are used to the incursions of the literarily-inclined young man (with, as a rule, quite dreadful manuscripts hidden about his person) who wants advice as to his life-work. But that this especial young man should be calling upon me for that purpose, or for any other purpose, did, I confess, even on Walburga's Eve, astonish me....