“Strange,” said Esther, musingly, “that I should have shut myself out of my old home.”

The postman’s knuckles rapping at the door interrupted her reflections.  In Royal Street the poor postmen had to mount to each room separately; fortunately, the tenants got few letters.  Debby was intensely surprised to get one.

“It isn’t for me at all,” she cried, at last, after a protracted examination of the envelope; “it’s for you, care of me.”

“But that’s stranger still.” said Esther.  “Nobody in the world knows my address.”

The mystery was not lessened by the contents.  There was simply a blank sheet of paper, and when this was unfolded a half-sovereign rolled out.  The postmark was Houndsditch.  After puzzling herself in vain, and examining at length the beautiful copy-book penmanship of the address, Esther gave up the enigma.  But it reminded her that it would be advisable to apprise her publishers of her departure from the old address, and to ask them to keep any chance letter till she called.  She betook herself to their offices, walking.  The day was bright, but Esther walked in gloom, scarcely daring to think of her position.  She entered the office, apathetically hopeless.  The junior partner welcomed her heartily.

“I suppose you’ve come about your account,” he said.  “I have been intending to send it you for some months, but we are so busy bringing out new things before the dead summer season comes on.”  He consulted his books.  “Perhaps you would rather not be bothered,” he said, “with a formal statement.  I have it all clearly here—­the book’s doing fairly well—­let me write you a cheque at once!”

She murmured assent, her cheeks blanching, her heart throbbing with excitement and surprise.

“There you are—­sixty-two pounds ten,” he said.  “Our profits are just one hundred and twenty-five.  If you’ll endorse it, I’ll send a clerk to the bank round the corner and get it cashed for you at once.”

The pen scrawled an agitated autograph that would not have been accepted at the foot of a cheque, if Esther had had a banking account of her own.

“But I thought you said the book was a failure,” she said.

“So it was,” he answered cheerfully, “so it was at first.  But gradually, as its nature leaked out, the demand increased.  I understand from Mudie’s that it was greatly asked for by their Jewish clients.  You see, when there’s a run on a three-volume book, the profits are pretty fair.  I believed in it myself, or I should never have given you such good terms nor printed seven hundred and fifty copies.  I shouldn’t be surprised if we find ourselves able to bring it out in one-volume form in the autumn.  We shall always be happy to consider any further work of yours; something on the same lines, I should recommend.”