an hysterical outburst of sensual desire and disappointment such as moves the souls of demimondaines and dressmakers,—­not even a “detective” sensation—­but just a Book—­a real Book, likely to live as long as literature itself.  It was something in the nature of a marvel, said those who knew what they were talking about, that such a book should have been written at all in these modern days.  The “style” of it was exquisite and scholarly—­quaint, expressive, and all-sufficing in its artistic simplicity,—­thoughts true for all time were presented afresh with an admirable point and delicacy that made them seem new and singularly imperative,—­and the story which, like a silken thread, held all the choice jewels of language together in even and brilliant order, was pure and idyllic,—­warm with a penetrating romance, yet most sincerely human.  When this extraordinary piece of work was published, it slipped from the press in quite a modest way without much preliminary announcement, and for two or three weeks after its appearance nobody knew anything about it.  The publishers themselves were evidently in doubt as to its reception, and signified their caution by economy in the way of advertisement—­it was not placarded in the newspaper columns as “A Book of the Century” or “A New Literary Event.”  It simply glided into the crowd of books without noise or the notice of reviewers—­just one of a pushing, scrambling, shouting multitude,—­and quite suddenly found itself the centre of the throng with all eyes upon it, and all tongues questioning the how, when and where of its author.  No one could say how it first began to be thus busily talked about,—­ the critics had bestowed upon it nothing of either their praise or blame,—­yet somehow the ball had been set rolling, and it gathered size and force as it rolled, till at last the publishers woke up to the fact that they had, by merest chance, hit upon a “paying concern.”  They at once assisted in the general chorus of delight and admiration, taking wider space in the advertisement columns of the press for the “work of genius” which had inadvertently fallen into their hands—­but when it came to answering the questions put to them respecting its writer they had very little to say, being themselves more or less in the dark.

“The manuscript was sent to us in the usual way,” the head of the firm explained to John Harrington, one of the soundest and most influential of journalists, “just on chance,—­it was neither introduced nor recommended.  One of our readers was immensely taken with it and advised us to accept it.  The author gave no name, and merely requested all communications to be made through his secretary, a Miss Armitage, as he wished for the time being to remain anonymous.  We drew up an Agreement on these lines which was signed for the author by Miss Armitage,—­she also corrected and passed the proofs—­”

“Perhaps she also wrote the book,” interrupted Harrington, with an amused twinkle in his eyes—­“I suppose such a solution of the mystery has not occurred to you?”