Professor Pease, the husband of the lady who had opened Mrs. Linyard’s eyes to the triumph of “The Vital Thing,” was the repository of her husband’s scientific experiences.  What he thought of “The Vital Thing” had never been divulged; and he was capable of such vast exclusions that it was quite possible that pervasive work had not yet reached him.  In any case, it was not likely to affect his judgment of the author’s professional capacity.

“You want to put that all in a book, Linyard,” was Professor Pease’s summing-up.  “I’m sure you’ve got hold of something big; but to see it clearly yourself you ought to outline it for others.  Take my advice—­chuck everything else and get to work tomorrow.  It’s time you wrote a book, anyhow.”

_ It’s time you wrote a book, anyhow!_ The words smote the Professor with mingled pain and ecstasy:  he could have wept over their significance.  But his friend’s other phrase reminded him with a start of Harviss.  “You have got hold of a big thing—­” it had been the publisher’s first comment on “The Vital Thing.”  But what a world of meaning lay between the two phrases!  It was the world in which the powers who fought for the Professor were destined to wage their final battle; and for the moment he had no doubt of the outcome.  The next day he went to town to see Harviss.  He wanted to ask for an advance on the new popular edition of “The Vital Thing.”  He had determined to drop a course of supplementary lectures at the University, and to give himself up for a year to his book.  To do this, additional funds were necessary; but thanks to “The Vital Thing” they would be forthcoming.

The publisher received him as cordially as usual; but the response to his demand was not as prompt as his previous experience had entitled him to expect.

“Of course we’ll be glad to do what we can for you, Linyard; but the fact is, we’ve decided to give up the idea of the new edition for the present.”

“You’ve given up the new edition?”

“Why, yes—­we’ve done pretty well by ‘The Vital Thing,’ and we’re inclined to think it’s your turn to do something for it now.”

The Professor looked at him blankly.  “What can I do for it?” he asked—­“what more” his accent added.

“Why, put a little new life in it by writing something else.  The secret of perpetual motion hasn’t yet been discovered, you know, and it’s one of the laws of literature that books which start with a rush are apt to slow down sooner than the crawlers.  We’ve kept ’The Vital Thing’ going for eighteen months—­but, hang it, it ain’t so vital any more.  We simply couldn’t see our way to a new edition.  Oh, I don’t say it’s dead yet—­but it’s moribund, and you’re the only man who can resuscitate it.”

The Professor continued to stare.  “I—­what can I do about it?” he stammered.

“Do?  Why write another like it—­go it one better:  you know the trick.  The public isn’t tired of you by any means; but you want to make yourself heard again before anybody else cuts in.  Write another book—­write two, and we’ll sell them in sets in a box:  The Vital Thing Series.  That will take tremendously in the holidays.  Try and let us have a new volume by October—­I’ll be glad to give you a big advance if you’ll sign a contract on that.”