Drexley frowned and turned back to his letters.

“Never mind that,” he said.  “I’ve good reasons for what I’m telling you to do.  Jesson’s story is not to appear until I give the word.”

The manager withdrew without a word.  Drexley went on with his correspondence.  In a few minutes there was another knock at his door.  He looked up annoyed.  Some one else, no doubt, to protest against the exclusion of Jesson’s story.  Rice was standing upon the threshold, and behind him a younger man, tall, with clustering hair and brilliant eyes, cheeks on which the tan still lingered, ill-clad but personable.

“I’ve brought Mr. Jesson in to see you, sir,” Rice said, breezily.  “I found him at Spargetti’s, struck up an acquaintance and brought him along.  I thought you’d like to have a talk with him about some more work.”

Drexley for a moment was as speechless as Douglas was nervous.  Rice, blandly unconscious of anything unusual, wheeled up a chair for the latter and sauntered towards the door.

“I’d like to have a word with you before you go, Jesson,” he said.  “Will you look in at my room?”

Douglas murmured an inarticulate assent, and Rice departed.  Then he looked up at the man who so far had only bidden him a mechanical good morning, and wondered a little at the heavy frown upon his face.  Perhaps his introduction had been a little unceremonious, but surely he could not be blamed for that.

Drexley pulled himself together.  The thing was awkward, but it must be faced.

“You have come to see us about your story, I suppose, Mr. Jesson?” he began.  “A very fair story indeed for a beginner, as I suppose you are.  I am hoping that some day we may be able to make use of it for the Ibex.”

Douglas looked up quickly.

“I understood Mr. Rice that you were using it in the next issue of the magazine,” he said.

“The next issue!” Drexley shook his head.

“I am afraid that is quite out of the question,” he said.  “You see our arrangements are all made a very long time ahead, and we have short stories enough on hand now to last us nearly two years.  Of course if you care to leave yours with us, I think I can promise you that it shall appear some time, but exactly when, I should not care to say.  It would be quite impossible to fix a date.”

Douglas was bewildered—­speechless.  He did his best, however, to remain coherent.

“Mr. Rice certainly told me,” he said, “that it was in type and would appear at once.  He seemed to think, too, that if I saw you you might give me some more work.  I am living in London now, and I hoped that it might be possible for me to make some money by my pen.”

Drexley was silent for several moments.  For the first time in his life he glanced across at the photograph which stood upon his table with something like impatience.

“I am afraid that I cannot offer you much encouragement,” he said.  “If ever a market in the world was overcrowded, the literary market of to-day is in that state.  If you like to leave your story it shall appear some time or other—­I cannot promise when—­and when we are able to use it we will pay you according to our usual standard.  More I cannot say at present.”