“I didn’t say so,” replied Ernst.  “Of course, I can’t look at them in a business way, unless they are duly submitted to my house, but I have been reading a very badly written, but mightily interesting manuscript, for the past two days and a half, and I want a change of work or diversion, to brush up my wits.  Now, old fellow,” said he, taking Quincy by the arm, “if you will come up to the club with me, and have a good dinner with some Chianti, and a glass or two of champagne, and a pousse cafe to finish up with, then we will go up to my rooms on Chestnut Street—­I have a whole top floor to myself—­we will light up our cigars, and you may read to me till to-morrow morning and I won’t murmur.  But, mind you, if the stories are mighty poor I may go to sleep, and if I do that, you might as well go to bed too, for when I once go to sleep I never wake up till I get good and ready.”

Quincy had intended after seeing a publisher to leave the manuscripts for examination, then to take tea with his mother and sisters, and go back to Eastborough on the five minutes past six express.  But he was prone to yield to fate, which is simply circumstances, and he accepted his old college chum’s invitation with alacrity.  He could get the opinion of an expert speedily, and that fact carried the day with him.

When they were comfortably ensconced in their easy-chairs on the top floor, and the cigars lighted, Quincy commenced reading.  Leopold had previously shown him his suite, which consisted of a parlor, or rather a sitting-room, a library, which included principally the works of standard authors and reference books, his sleeping apartment, and a bathroom.

There was a large bed lounge in the sitting-room, and Quincy determined to read every story in his carpet bag, if it took him all night.  He commenced with the series of detective or mystery stories.  He had read them over before and was able to bring out their strong points oratorically, for, as it has been said before, he was a fine speaker.

Quincy eyed Ernst over the corner of the manuscript he was reading, but the latter understood his business.  Occasionally he was betrayed into a nod of approval and several times shook his head in a negative way, but he uttered no word of commendation or disapproval.

After several of the stories had been read, Ernst called a halt, and going to a cupboard brought out some crackers, cake, and a decanter of wine, with glasses, which he put upon a table, and placed within comfortable reach of both reader and listener.  Then he said, “Go ahead,” munched a cracker, sipped his wine, and then lighted a fresh cigar.

When the series was finished, Leopold said, “Now we will have some tea.  I do a good deal of my reading at home, and I don’t like to go out again after I have crawled up four flights of stairs, so my landlady sends me up a light supper at just about this hour.  There is the maid now,” as a light knock was heard on the door.