A fortnight afterwards, Alexis Triona, who, together with John Briggs, as one single and indissoluble chauffeur, inhabited a little room over the garage in Cherbury Mews, received a letter to the effect that the publishing house, being interested in the MS. “_Through Blood and Snow_,” which he had kindly submitted, would be glad if he would call, with a view to publication. The result was a second visit on the part of the chauffeur to the great firm. The clerk welcomed him with a bland smile, and showed him into a comfortably furnished room whose thick Turkey carpet signified the noiseless mystery of many discreet decades, and where a benevolent middle-aged man in gold spectacles stood with his back to the chimney-piece. He advanced with outstretched hand to meet the author. “Mr. Triona? I’m glad to meet you. Won’t you sit down?” He motioned to a chair by the tidy writing table, where he sat and pulled forward the manuscript, which had been placed there in readiness for the interview. He said pleasantly: “Well. Let us get to business at once. We should like to publish your book.” The slight quivering of sensitive nostrils alone betrayed the author’s emotion. “I’m glad,” he replied. “I think it’s worth publishing.” Mr. Rowington tapped the MS. in front of him with his forefinger. “Are these your own personal experiences?” “They are,” said the chauffeur. “Excuse my questioning you,” said the publisher. “Not that it would greatly matter. But one likes to know. We should be inclined to publish it, either as a work of fiction or a work of fact; but the handling of it—the method of publicity—would be different. Of course, you see,” he went on benevolently, “a thing may be absolutely true in essence, like lots of the brilliant little war stories that have been written the past few years, but not true in the actual historical sense. Now, your book would have more value if we could say that it is true in this actual historical sense, if we could say that it’s an authentic record of personal experiences.” “You can say that,” answered Triona quietly. The publisher leaned back in his chair. “How a man could have gone through what you have and remained sane passes understanding.” For the first time the young man’s set features relaxed into a smile. “I shouldn’t like to swear that I am sane,” said he. “I’ve heard ex-prisoners say,” Mr. Rowington remarked, “that six months’ solitary confinement under such conditions”—he patted the manuscript—“is as much as the human reason can stand.” “As soon as hunting and killing vermin ceases to be a passionate interest in life,” said Triona. They conversed for a while. Stimulated by the publisher’s question, Triona supplemented details in the book, described his final adventure, his landing penniless in London, his search for work. At last, said he, he had found a situation as chauffeur in the garage of a motor-hiring company. The publisher glanced at the slip pinned to the cover of the manuscript.