“It would take days to tell you.” “Well, compress it into a sort of emergency ration,” said Olivia. So he sat by her side on the oak settle, near the anthracite stove in the hall, and told her what he knew of Alexis Triona. CHAPTER III WHAT Blaise Olifant told Olivia about his prospective co-inhabitant of The Towers, and what Rowington, the publisher, and one or two others knew about him, amounted to the following: One morning a motor-car, having the second-hand air of a hiring garage and unoccupied save for the chauffeur, drew up before the door of a great London publishing house. The chauffeur stepped from his seat, collected a brown-paper package from the interior, and entered. “Can I see a member of the firm?” The clerk in the enquiry office looked surprised. Chauffeurs offering manuscripts on behalf of their employers were plentiful as blackberries in September; but chauffeurs demanding an interview with the august heads of the house were rare as blackberries in March. “I’m afraid you can’t do that,” he replied civilly. “If you leave it here, it will be all right. I’ll give you a receipt which you can take back.” “I want to explain,” said the chauffeur. Scores of people weekly expressed the same desire. It was the business of the clerk to suppress explanations. “It’s a manuscript to be submitted? Well, you must tell the author——” “I am the author,” said the chauffeur. “Oh!” said the clerk, and his subconscious hand pushed the manuscript a millimetre forward on the polished mahogany counter. “The circumstances, you see, are exceptional.” There being something exceptional in the voice and manner of the chauffeur, the clerk regarded him for the first time as a human being. “I quite see,” said he; “but the rules of the firm are strict. If you will leave the manuscript, it will be read. Oh, I give you my word of honour,” he smiled. “Everything that comes in is read. We have a staff who do nothing else. Is your name and address on it?” He began to untie the string. “The name, but not the address.” On the slip of paper which the clerk pushed across to him he wrote: Alexis Triona, c/o John Briggs. 3 Cherbury Mews, Surrey Gardens, W. The clerk scribbled an acknowledgment, the chauffeur thrust it into his pocket, and, driving away, was lost in the traffic of London.