"Foiled!" said Dunstable, and went off to Seymour's to see his friend Linton. "Got any notepaper?" he asked. "Heaps," said Linton. "Why? Want some?" "Then get out a piece. I want to dictate a letter." Linton stared. "What's up? Hurt your hand?" Dunstable explained. "Day collects autographs, you know, and he wants Montagu Watson's badly. Pining away, and all that sort of thing. Won't smile until he gets it. I had a shot at it yesterday, and got this." Linton inspected the document. "So I can't send up another myself, you see." "Why worry?" "Oh, I'd like to put Day one up. He's not been bad this term. Come on." "All right. Let her rip." Dunstable let her rip. _Dear Sir_,--I cannot refrain from writing to tell you what an inestimable comfort your novels have been to me during years of sore tribulation and distress---- "Look here," interrupted Linton with decision at this point. "If you think I'm going to shove my name at the end of this rot, you're making the mistake of a lifetime." "Of course not. You're a widow who has lost two sons in South Africa. We'll think of a good name afterwards. Ready? "Ever since my darling Charles Herbert and Percy Lionel were taken from me in that dreadful war, I have turned for consolation to the pages of 'The Soul of Anthony Carrington' and----" "What, another?" asked Linton. "There's one called 'Pancakes.'" "Sure? Sounds rummy." "That's all right. You have to get a queer title nowadays if you want to sell a book." "Go on, then. Jam it down." "--and 'Pancakes.' I hate to bother you, but if you could send me your autograph I should be more grateful than words can say. Yours admiringly." "What's a good name? How would Dorothy Maynard do?" "You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?" Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a flourish. They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking's in the High Street. It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging stationer who would take in letters for them. There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his other defects as a correspondent, Mr. Watson was at least prompt with his responses.