Mr. Cheltenham spent the morning preparing a rather subtle agreement, and it was ready for Mr. Kato when he arrived at 5.15. The publisher had worked hard and was feeling quite drowsy when the little man entered the room, so much so that once again he experienced the silly illusion that Mr. Kato’s shadow had come in with him. “Well,” he said, rousing himself, “I spent a delightful evening reading your poems, and I think them admirable, and I am looking forward to being your partner in their production and publication. I have the agreement here”--he glanced down at his desk--“which I shall ask you to--I must overcome this drowsiness,” he thought to himself, for it had seemed to him that a shape like a small thin hand had fallen across the page, and he had started to brush it away when he had paused--“which I shall ask you to examine. But first I will read you the main clauses.” “Quite pleased,” said Mr. Kato. Mr. Cheltenham began to mumble rapidly through the first paragraph--“An agreement between Charles Cheltenham, hereinafter referred to as the Publisher, and F. Gonesara, hereinafter--Gonesara?” he repeated puzzled, and then looked up with a smile. “Why I should have made such a mistake with the name I cannot”--and then he paused, for Mr. Kato was not looking his best. His eyes were staring and his hands were working, and he was muttering to himself in a foreign tongue. “Please excuse,” he murmured, “and read remainder of contractual document.” Mr. Cheltenham did so perfunctorily and hurriedly, for he had the impression Mr. Kato was not listening, and was anxious to be gone. When he had finished the latter took it up and almost ran from the room. As he got up the publisher saw, or seemed to see, that shadow rise with him and dart away behind him. The agreement came back the next day, laconically labelled “O.K. J. Kato.” Then did Mr. Cheltenham get exceedingly busy. He decided it should be a beautiful little book bound in batik, price 7s. 6d. He had some of the poems typed out and sent to certain influential literary critics of his acquaintance for their opinion, and there were many other details to attend to. He had a highly-trained mind, and by that evening everything concerning the production of the book was settled. He worked late, till long after his small staff had gone home. Shortly before leaving he had occasion to go down to the ground floor for the estimate book which his manager guarded. On returning to his room it seemed to him that a small figure was leaning over his desk, but a second later it was gone. Hallucinations had not been included in the content of Mr. Cheltenham’s experience up till then, and he walked home to his flat in Westminster in rather a thoughtful mood. “Possibly,” he said to himself, “I have been overworking.”