But the man? No overcoat. That soft black hat! A glimpse of a flowing tie of black silk! The odd trick of throwing his right leg out and around as he walked and toeing in with the right foot! It was the Worm. Peter turned sharply away, crossed the street and caught a south-bound bus. Wavering between irritation, elation and chagrin, he walked in and out among the twisted old streets of Greenwich Village. Four distinct times--and for no clear reason--he passed the dingy apartment building where Sue and Betty lived. Later he found himself standing motionless on a curb by a battered lamp-post, peering through his large horn-rimmed eye-glasses at a bill-board across the street on which his name did not appear. He studied the twenty-four-sheet poster of a cut plug tobacco that now occupied the space. There was light enough in the street to read it by. Suddenly he turned and looked to the right. Then he looked to the left. Fumbling for a pencil, he moved swiftly and resolutely across the street. Very small, down in the right-hand corner of the tobacco advertisement, he wrote his name--his pen name--“Eric Mann.” Then, more nearly at peace with himself, he went to the moving pictures. Entering the rooms later, he found the Worm settled, in pajamas as usual, with a book in the Morris chair. He also found a big envelope from Neuerman with the contract in it and a check for a thousand dollars, advanced against royalties. It was a brown check. He fingered it for a moment, while his spirits recorded their highest mark for the day. Then, outwardly calm, he put it in an inside coat pocket and with a fine air of carelessness tossed the contract to the desk. The Worm put down his book and studied Peter rather thoughtfully. “Pete,” he finally said, “I've got a message for you, and I've been sitting here debating whether to deliver it or not.” “Let's have it!” replied _the_ Eric Mann shortly. The Worm produced a folded envelope from the pocket of his pajamas and handed it ever. “I haven't been told what's in it,” he said. Peter, with a tremor, unfolded the envelope and peered inside. There were two enclosures--one plainly his scribbled note to Sue; the other (he had to draw it partly out and examine it)--yes--no--yes, his anonymous letter, much crumpled. Deliberately, rather white about the mouth, Peter moved to the fireplace, touched a match to the papers and watched them burn. That done, he turned and queried: “Well? That all?” The Worm shook his head. “Not quite all, Pete.” Words suddenly came from Peter. “What do I care for that girl! A creative artist has his reactions, of course. He even does foolish things. Look at Wagner, Burns, Cellini, Michael Angelo--look at the things they used to do!...” The words stopped. “Her message is,” continued the Worm, “the suggestion that next time you write one of them with your left hand.”