Mr. Cheltenham, a rather dusty and musty, yet amiable-looking person, a veteran of some sixty publishing seasons, was seated at his desk in his charming if a little ricketty office in Willoughby Court, one placid September afternoon, reflecting drowsily on an aphorism which an American publisher friend had yapped at him during luncheon. “It’s a sort of joke amongst authors in America to say, ‘Now Barabbas was a publisher.’” “Well,” thought Mr. Cheltenham, “if that were so, every scribe in the Province should have come to howl for his release. Three-quarters of all the books I have published would never have been born but for me. By my instinct and initiative they are conceived; I midwife them and wet-nurse them. I ensure that they are beautiful. In most cases only too soon I am compelled to recognise they are dead, and remainder their remains. And my remuneration for carrying out these versatile functions, genital, obstetric, and cenotaphic, is microscopic. And the lazy ingrates who pretend to their parentage compare such philanthropists to a brigand!” Indignation brushed the poppies from his eyes, and he went back to his proof-reading. A little later his telephone bell rang. “A gentleman to see you. Yes, sir, a Mr. Kato, sir, about a manuscript.” “Oh, show him up,” answered Mr. Cheltenham resignedly. A moment later the door opened and an exotic and singular personage entered. His tiny feet were embraced by patent leather boots and white spats. A pair of plus-four knickerbockers peeped out through a loose dark garment like a priest’s robe. Above protruded a short, tubby body, above that a sallow expressionless face with fluttering almond eyes. His right hand was clutching a bowler hat, his left a package of some kind. This apparition sat down on the chair pointed out to him by Mr. Cheltenham, and remained silent. “Well, Mr. Kato,” said the publisher, “and what can I do for you?” Mr. Kato thereupon raised his left hand and placed on the table a beautifully bound manuscript on which were painted in a panel some sentences Mr. Cheltenham supposed were Japanese. “I have this book, which I wish to bring to notice of poetic public persons,” he said in a clipped, toneless voice. Mr. Cheltenham picked up the manuscript. “I take it you wish to have it published,” he said. He saw it consisted of a number of short poems. “The usual tripe,” he thought to himself, for he had met these Orientals before who spend many ingenious days translating into deliberately naïve English the lesser-known works of their compatriots and palming them off as their own.