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CROME YELLOW

go hand in hand. All the ideas of the present and of the past, on every possible subject, bob up among the Tales, smile gravely or grimace a caricature of themselves, then disappear to make place for something new. ‘The verbal surface of his writing is rich and fantastically diversified. ‘The wit is incessant. The . . .”

“But couldn’t you give us a specimen,” Denis broke in—‘‘a concrete example?”

“Alas!”Mr. Scogan replied, “Knockespotch’s great book is like the sword Excalibur. It remains stuck fast in this door, awaiting the coming of a writer with genius enough to draw it forth. I am not even a writer, I am not so much as qualified to attempt the task. The extraction of Knockespotch from his wooden prison I leave, my dear Denis, to you.”

“Thank you,” said Denis.

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