Essie turned away from the coveted sunshade and laughed delightedly at him. "Goodness, wouldn't it be funny! I'd say what ho! What _ho_!" "Essie, I want to tell you something. I am rich. I'm what you'd call very rich." "Picked up a shilling, have you?" cried Essie, gleefully entering into the game. "Let's go into the bank and invest it!" "No, we'll go in here," said Mr. Wriford, the contents of a bookseller's window they had reached giving him a sudden idea. "We'll go in here. I'll show you something." She caught his arm as he stepped towards the door. "Whatever do you mean?" He answered her very intensely, "Essie, be serious. I've a lot to tell you to-night. First of all, I'm rich, I've only been pretending all the time I've been down here. My name's not Arthur at all. It's Philip--" Essie made a laughing grimace. "Ur! Philip's like skim milk." Unheeding her, he went on. "Philip Wriford. I'm an author-- "Oh, if you aren't a caution!" cried Essie. "You don't believe it?" Essie assumed a very ingenuous air. "Your mistake, pardon me. I wasn't born jus' before supper, you know." "Will you believe it if I go in here and ask to see some of my books?" "Oh, wouldn't I like to see you dare!" "Come along," and he stepped inside the porch of the shop and opened the door. Essie, half-laughing, half-frightened at this boldness, clutched at his arm. He caught her hand and led her within. "Oh, if you aren't a caution to-night!" Essie whispered. "Don't, Arthur! Arthur, don't be so bold!" "You've got to believe." A counter at the end of the shop displayed above it the words "Lending Library." Essie, most terribly red in the face, followed him while he stalked to it, and then stood confounded with his boldness and striving immensely to restrain her laughter while Mr. Wriford addressed the young woman who came towards them. "Have you got any of Philip Wriford's books in the library?" Mr. Wriford asked her. "We've got several copies," he was told. "But they're all out. There's a great demand for them." His eye caught the top volume of a pile of books on the counter, from each of which a ticket was displayed, and he motioned towards it. "Yes, that's his last," the young woman said, "but it's ordered. It's going out to-morrow." "I can look at it?" "Oh, you can look at it. If you like to take out a subscription by the week or longer, you can put your name down for it. There's other copies out," and she moved away. Mr. Wriford took up the book with something of a thrill--the first actively stirring thought of his work since he had fled from it. It was the book he had delivered to his agent shortly before that night of his escape, and had seen ecstatically reviewed in the paper at Pendra. He had never seen it in print. He opened it at the title page. "Twelfth Edition," he read aloud to Essie. "You know what that means. It was only published in the autumn." "How do you know?" said Essie.