I bowed politely to
my dreams of literary fame and became wholly absorbed in my
journalistic work. When the book came out I could not but admire the
excellence of the bookmaking, but as I looked through the reviews and
found no mention save in "books received," I threw the book aside and
vowed that it should be my last. The publisher wrote me that he was
surprised that the book had not caught on, as he considered the story
unusually clever. "Merit is one thing," he said, "but luck is
another." I have found this to be true, not only in literature, but in
all walks of life where fame and money are the goals. Phyllis wrote me
that she thought the book "just splendid"; but I took her praise with a
grain of salt, it being likely that she was partial to the author, and
that the real worth of the book was little in comparison with the fact
that it was I who wrote it.
One morning in early June I found three letters on my desk. The first
was from Hillars. He was in Vienna.
"MY DEAR SON," it ran, "there is another rumpus. The Princess
disappeared on the 20th of last month. They are hunting high and low
for her, and incidentally for me.
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