THE MYSTERIOUS AUTHOR.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 253, 23 October 1907, Page 3

THE MYSTERIOUS AUTHOR.

STOBY.]

CBY JBSSIB 1 WHITAKBB.) "Did you come dowri-stairs during the night, Edgar?" queried Mtes Cynthia Reed, glancing at her brother across the plate of sparsely buttered bread which, formed the ■most prominent item upon their breakfast table. "I? No, indeed; I slept -well," returned Mr Reed, . stirring . his 'coffee somewhat absently. He hated coffee made without milk, but he endeavoured to conceal from Cynthia's eyes the fact that he had noticed this further reduction in their diet. "I was dreaming of cheques, and benign, editors, and literary success," he added, with a smile. "I have a distinctly more hopeful feeling this morning, as a consequence. Perhaps the tide is about to turn, Cynthia!" . "Let us .hope so," returned Miss Reed quietly. She knew better than he did, that unless the tide turned soon it woud turn too late to save their fortunes from ruin. Her brother's ideas as to the, cost of living were vajjue, and he did not know that it was necessary for her to supplement the small cheques and postal orders le handed her from time to time with money raised by the sale or pawning of her own trifling possessions. When Cynthia Reed had linked i "the failure, and had renounced for his sake, the comforts and luxuries of life with a more well-to-do relative, she had done so in no half-hearted manner, but with a full determination to make the best of the situation. "I thought I heard the typewriter clicking during the night, that was all," she remarked in explanation of her previous question. "Once or twice when I awoke I fancied I could distinguish it, and the tinkle of the bell, too. Of coarse, I must have beea. mistaken." "It is an illustration of the way things cling to one's mind," returned Reea. "I had been typewriting all day yesterday, and the sound had become so familiar to you that you hardly realised its cessation. "Well, I suppose I had better get back to it If half the stuff I write is rejected, it is necessary to go on, for the sake Of the other naif." He rose. Cynthia sighed, and. wished the bread and butter were more appetizing. "You have eaten nothing, Ned," she said reproachfully. "Oh, I've done pretty well," rejoined he, adding mendaciously, "I enjoyed my coffee." He went through the door into the adjoining room, and Cynthia began to clear away the breafclast things. But in a moturned, flushed, and obviously excited, and flourished before her eyes some sheets of typewritten manuscript. "What is the meaning of this; Cynthia?" he cried. "Here is a mystery for you to solve! I have found this by the side of the typewriter —six sheets of manuscript!" . "And what is it, Edgar?" asked Cynthia, as excited as he was. "I told you I heard the machine! Some friendly hobgoblin has been at work on your behalf!" "Let us read it before coming to that conclusion," returned Reed. "Seems to be a short story—'Through the Gates.' Now, Cynthia, put down that crockery, and take a seat, while I read It through." The mysterious story was about three thousand words in length, and when he had concluded the reading, Edgar laid it down in a state of greater bewilderment than ever. "It's A-l," he said. "Don't you think it's tip-top, Cynthia? Here, help mc on with my coat. I must mail it to one of the magazines right away! So Reed went out, and dropped the manuscript into a letter box. On his way home he thought the matter over thoroughly, and he could' only come to one conclusion. He must have written the story himself in his sleep. Certainly it was strange that his somnambulistic effort should be superior to his work when awake; but no other explanation of the circumstances seemed 'co suggest iteelf. He went home and communicated his conclusion to Cynthia, who endorsed it rather heartily. "Now, Jf you could write one Hie that every night, -we might move to more fashionable quarters," she said. Of course, it was several weeks before Reed heard anything as to tbv fate of the manuscript, and during thiit *rylng time his exchequer remained at the lowest ebb. Consequently, it was with a feeling of the greatest jubilation that he read the letter which informed him that the editor of the "Glove" considered the mysterious story to be worth four guineas. But that was not all. "We are highly pleased with your story, Through the Gates,' " wrote he, with as much, enthusiasm as a' typewritten epistle can be made to express. "I shall be dellshtcd to see some more work from your pen. I hope you will bear this in mind." This was eminently satisfactory, and Reed worked away for two days with more hope of success than he had had for some time. On the morning: of tne third he came downstairs to discover a new slice of luck. Another manuscript lay upon his desk, and when .he had read it through, he was obliged to confess that it more than equalled "Through the Gates" In pom; or merit. "Well, I'll be jiggered!", he ejaculated. "I certainly thought i slept as sound as a top last night. Did you near the typewriter again, Cynthia?" "No, I did not. You may be sure that it I had I should have come down to investigate. Never mind, Ned! Take the gifts the the gods provide! The guineas, come Iα very_ useful." "It is not only the guineas I think of, it is my reputation," returnee Edgar. "If 1 have a few more stones in tfcg "Globe,"Cynthia, my name will be made. Tnere has been a marked difference in the way edltore have treated my stuff since Mat first one appeared. üßt I wish—l do, really—that 1 had written them when awake." The second story produced even greater , editorial enthusiasm than the lirst had done, and, much to his surprise, Keed received a call from ihe august individual in person. Mr. Faraday knew a good thing when he caw It, and he was anxious, it possible, to secure a monopoly or the new writter's work. When he had taken his departure, Rood rushed into the kitchen, ana swung his sister round and round the room in a dance of irrepressible gaiety. "Sly fortune is made! 3ly fortane Is made!" he cried. "The editor of the 'Globe' will take-all I send him!" "He seems a very nice young man," remarked Cynthia inconsequential:?-. Arthur Faraday was certainly puzzled by the inequality ot tQe worK Ms new contributor submitted, and conciuded that he must be trying to oust off upon him some stranded "pot-boilers." But Reed discovi ered very early that other editors wpre not so particular, and that his double appearance in a paper of so good a standing as the "Globe" had had a most marked effect in the way of increasing the respect with, which his communications were treated in other offices. Indeed, it seemed as tnouga the tide had at last lairly turned. Mr. Karaday had taken him up with unwoateel enthusiasm, and those manuscripts which were unsuitable for the "Globe" he contrived to get placed in one or other of fhe weeklies in which his firm were interested. Eeed wondered at his marvellous good-na-° ture, and 6till more at the desire he evlnv.-ed to make of him a personal friend, artbar Faraday was continually findfti,? pretextr for calling upon hie contributor, but it was not until this had been going oa lor some menths that Edgar had an inkling of the truth.. 'When he returned hoaie late one evening to find that Cynthia had been entertaining tne editor for a couple of hours, and that neither of them seemed at all bored, he began to see more clearly from whence-came-his good luck.

Meanwhile, no explanation of the appearance oi-tbe mysterious maauscngt aaa ever

come to light. He ••■was ardent in nis wleiics that another might be epeedlly forthcoming, for he knew the necessity of living up to the reputation that they nad created for him, and although the fillip siven to nls efforts by success had served to mate a great improvement in his work, he was conscious that it hardly came up to the standard expected from Mm. Bnt the mystery -was abont to be cleared up. _ One night Eeed was awakeaud from a light sleet) by a most unmistakable sound. He sat up in bed, positively trejinlons with excitement, and, after a momtnt of Intent listening, came to the conclusion that some one was undoubtedly using the typewriter in. his study below. As quietly as possible, he threw on his dressing-gown ■ and tip-toed downstairs. Outside the study door he pause 3. A stream of light came through , keyhole, and removed any dcmbts he migafTiave entertained as to whether anyone was lea'.ly within. .Whom he expected to se, he had not the faintest idea, but, nevertheless, ne received a shock iwhen he threw open Tne door, and found it was no other than his sister, Cynthia, who sat before the machine. "You!" he ejaculated, advancing a step into the room. "You, Cynthia! You are the clever hobgoblin who has made my fortune!" "Yes, you funny old boy." said CynrPia, blushing in a way that made her looK simply charming. ""When we "Were sc poo". 1 thought I would like to try to Ao something, and I didn't -want you to laugh, at me—and so—and so—l kept it a secret. Ton are not with mc, are you, Ned?"* "Angry, Cynthia? But why didn't you explain afterward, wnen you saw tie success of your story?" "Why, you see, you explained in a different -way. And- it seemed to be helping you. so I thought I had better keep quiet. 1 thought if.you knew I had written the stories, you ■would insist on mc havinc the credit, and I didn't want it. 1 flidn't, really." "But this can't go on any longer," 6aid Reed. "I am not going to continue to wear laurels i:hnt oelonjr to someone else- Yoti've got to come out in your tree colours, Cynthia." Cynthia laughed. "I was thinking I should like to tell Arthur," she said.