3.  That story about the Duke, I want for our magazine.  It is capital, and has enough meat in it to make a full-blown novel.  All it wants is oysters, soup, fish, entrees, and a dessert prefixed to and joined on to the solid roast and game which the story as now written itself supplies.

In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this 24th day of February, 186—.

Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic.

Quincy remained all night with Leopold, sleeping on the bed lounge in the sitting-room.  He was up at six o’clock the next morning, but found that his friend was also an early riser, for on entering the library he saw the latter seated at his desk regarding the pile of manuscript which Quincy had read to him.

Leopold looked up with a peculiar expression on his face.

“What’s the matter,” asked Quincy, “changing your mind?”

“No,” said Leopold, “I never do that, it would spoil my value as a reader if I did.  My decisions are as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and are regarded by literary aspirants as being quite as severe as the statutes of Draco; but the fact is, Quincy, you and your protege—­you see I consider you equally culpable—­have neglected to put any real name or pseudonym to these interesting stories.  Of course I can affix the name of the most popular author that the world has ever known,—­Mr. Anonymous,—­but you two probably have some pet name that you wish immortalized.”

“By George!” cried Quincy, “we did forget that.  I will talk it over with her, and send you the nom de plume by mail.

“Very well,” said Leopold, rising.  “And now let us go and have some breakfast.”

“My dear fellow, you must excuse me.  I have not seen my parents this trip, and I ought to go up to the house and take breakfast with the family.”

“All right,” said Leopold, “rush that pseudonym right along, so I can send the manuscripts to Cooper.  And don’t forget to drop in and see me next time you come to the city.”

On his way to Beacon Street Quincy suddenly stopped and regarded a sign that read, Paul Culver, M.D., physician and surgeon.  He knew Culver, but hadn’t seen him for eight years.  They were in the Latin School together under pater Gardner.  He rang the bell and was shown into Dr. Culver’s office, and in a few minutes his old schoolmate entered.  Paul Culver was a tall, broad-chested, heavily-built young man, with frank blue eyes, and hair of the color that is sometimes irreverently called, or rather the wearers of it are called, towheads.

They had a pleasant talk over old school days and college experiences, which were not identical, for Paul had graduated from Yale College at his father’s desire, instead of from Harvard.  Then Quincy broached what was upper-most in his mind and which had been the real reason for his call.  He stated briefly the facts concerning Alice’s case, and asked Paul’s advice.