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Updated: May 6, 2025
He had a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely, who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there. "He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday, and what do you think he was doing?
"To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's going into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters, so I haven't his address." "Have you an 'ABC'?" "Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in it, sir, before he left."
"For Heaven's sake, sit down, Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last. Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the editor. "I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in his eyes. "Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.
Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands together. His face was in a glow of excitement. "Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it actually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?" "Naturally." "Of course it would. Now, you listen to me.
The man who answered Shorely's imperious summons to the door was surprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, who looked like a lunatic or a tramp. "Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminary talk. "Yes, sir," answered the man. "Is he in his room?" "No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing- room.
"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was finally broken by Gibberts saying "So you don't care about the story?" "Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with an imaginary and sanguinary ending."
Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his trousers' pockets. "It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my attention a moment ago to its type-written character." "Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into melancholy. "You don't like the story, then?
"How did you come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun. "Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor, indignantly. "It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily; "but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?"
They then believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so I want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most remarkable story written in England this year." "Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is a most remarkable story, in the author's opinion." "Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to me like that.
The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried to remember whether or not he had burned Gibberts' letter. If he had left it on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence. The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled over the fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losing time with every mile.
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