It bore upon the envelope the name of a New York publishing house to whom Condy had sent a collection of his short stories about a month before.

He took the letter into the "round window" of the club, overlooking the street, and tore it open excitedly.

The fact that he had received a letter from the firm without the return of his manuscript seemed a good omen.

This was what he read: Conde Rivers, Esq., Bohemian Club, San Francisco, Cal.
DEAR SIR: We return to you by this mail the manuscript of your stories, which we do not consider as available for publication at the present moment.

We would say, however, that we find in several of them indications of a quite unusual order of merit.