I hate being defeated by a murder. And it wasn't even in my own room."

"Ah, that's the trade way of looking at it," the Vicar said. "You'll have some coffee? But this poor fellow...is it known at all who he was?"

"Nary a know," Mornington answered brightly. "The police have the body as the clue, and that's all. Rather large, and inconvenient to lug about, and of course only available for a few days. Nature, you know. But it's the Bookman that annoys me—you wouldn't believe how much."

"Oh, come, not really!" the Vicar protested. "You wouldn't compare the importance of an advertisement with a murder."

"I think Mr. Mornington's quite right," the Archdeacon said. "After all, one shouldn't be put out of one's stride by anything phenomenal and accidental. The just man wouldn't be."

"But, still, a murder—" the Vicar protested.

The Archdeacon shrugged. "Murders or mice, the principle's the same," he answered. "To-morrow is too late, I suppose?"

"Quite," Mornington answered. "But I needn't worry you with my phenomenal and specialist troubles."

"As a matter of fact," the Archdeacon went on placidly, "we were talking about your firm at first rather differently." He pointed with his glasses to the manuscript on the table, and looked coyly at Mornington. "I dare say you can guess," he added.

Mornington tried to look pleased, and said in a voice that almost cracked with doubt: "Books?"

"A book," the Vicar said. "The Archdeacon's been giving a series of addresses on Christianity and the League of Nations, and he's made them into a little volume which ought to have a good sale. So, of course, I thought of you."

"Thank you so much," Mornington answered. "And you'll excuse me asking— but is the Archdeacon prepared to back his fancy? Will he pay if necessary?"

The Archdeacon shook his head. "I couldn't do that, Mr. Mornington," he said. "It doesn't seem to me quite moral, so to speak. You know how they say a book is like a child. One has a ridiculous liking for one's own child—quite ridiculous. And that's all right. But seriously to think it's better than other children, to push it, to 'back' its being better, as you said—that seems to me so silly as to be almost wicked." He shook his head sadly at the manuscript.

"On the general principle I don't agree with you," Mornington said. "If your ideas are better than others' you ought to push them. I've no patience with our modern democratic modesty. How do you know the publisher you send it to is a better judge than you are? And, if he rejects it, what do you do?"

"If I send it to all the publishers," the Archdeacon answered, "and they all reject it, I think I should believe them. Securus iudicat, you know."

"But it doesn't," Mornington said. "Not by any manner of means.