Several days passed in an eminently satisfactory manner. Mr. Kato signed his agreement without demur. The influential literary critics were one and all most enthusiastic, and eager to know all there was to be known about the author. That suggested a problem to Mr. Cheltenham. Should he treat Mr. Kato as a mysterious and enigmatic figure, and rouse interest in him in that way, or should he do the usual thing and supply full details. He decided first of all to see what facts concerning his career Mr. Kato could supply. He wrote him the usual letter strongly urging him to overcome that loathing for publicity which he probably cherished. He received a reply by return of post: “Dear Charles Cheltenham, “Please excuse. I am, as you would say, middle classes Jap Gentleman, formally in Rice Affair. Therefore complete void of interesting publicity dope. “J. Kato.” There were some Japanese characters under the signature. When he had read this missive and decided to treat Mr. Kato as a mystery, Mr. Cheltenham ruminated, and not for the first time, on the incredible workings of the creative imagination. How was it possible for a person who could write “Please excuse”--“Formally in Rice Affair”--to be the author of the many masterpieces in _And he shall sing as best he can_? He gave it up. He wondered what might be the meaning of the delightfully decorative postscript. When he went to lunch at his Club, he took the letter with him--Sanders of the Far Eastern section of the British Museum was usually to be found there. He was in on this occasion and talking very loudly, wittily, and provocatively in the smoking-room. He glanced casually at the letter which the publisher held out to him. Then it seemed to hold his attention. “A morbid prophet, your friend,” he said, “but I have always understood that even the shortest experience of publishers sharply stimulates a suicidal neurosis.” “Publishers, like saxophones and beards,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “should be exempted by a truce of God from being made subjects of the cheap jokes of inferior humorists for Eternity. And now tell me what those Jap words mean.” “Well,” said Sanders, “they follow on the signature, so the whole thing reads ‘J. Kato who will die on Feb. 13th!’” Mr. Cheltenham was taken sharply aback. “Is that what it says?” he replied sharply. “What’s the fool mean?” As he walked back to his office he felt for the first time a slight diminution of his enthusiasm for the book, a vague premonition of coming fear, such as a swimmer far out in a calm and golden sea might know when he felt the first pull of a strong and hostile current.