Vance had recovered his self-possession. He set forth, in as few words as possible, his business relations with the New Hour and Dreck and Saltzer, and his urgent need of raising money. He explained that he was debarred from selling his literary work to other bidders, and that he wanted to try his hand at publicity. It hardly seemed to be his own voice speaking—he felt more as if he were making a character talk in one of his books. When Hayes opened a parenthesis to ease his mind on the subject of Tarrant and the New Hour, Vance recalled the drunken row in the office—but that too had become far-off and inoffensive. The only thing that was actual and urgent was what this man on the other side of the desk was going to say in reply to his appeal for help. He stiffened himself inwardly and waited.

Hayes leaned back and drummed on the desk. "Cigarette?" he queried, pushing a box across the table. Vance shook his head, and there was another silence. Then: "How's your wife?" Hayes asked abruptly.

The blood rushed to Vance's temples. "She's fairly well," he said coldly.

"I see. Living at the same old stand?"

"No. We're out in the country now."

"Say—are you?" Hayes lit his cigarette, took a puff or two, and then stood up. "See here, Mr. Weston, I guess we can fix you up some way or other. Come round with me now to our Publicity Department—" He opened the glass door and led the way down a corridor to another glazed enclosure… .