Thanks to
that Lancashire jackanapes, there was division between us; and I had
pretty well made up my mind, not only that he thought himself quite
capable of writing Andriaovsky's "Life," himself, but that he had
actually made an attempt in that direction. They had come in the
suspicion that I was throwing them over, and, though that suspicion was
removed, Maschka wished, if there was any throwing over to be done, to do
it herself. In a word, she wanted to compare me with Schofield. "To see it as far as it is written," I repeated slowly.... "Well, you
may. That is, you, Michael's sister, may. But on the condition that
you neither show it to anybody else nor speak of it to anybody else." "Ah!" she said.... "And only on those conditions?" "Only on those conditions." I saw a quick glance between them. "Shall we tell him?" it seemed to
say....

"Including the man Michael's sister is going to marry?" she said
abruptly. My attitude was deeply apologetic, but, "Including anybody whomsoever," I
answered. "Then," she said, rising, "we won't bother. But will you at least let us
know, soon, when we may expect your text?" "I will let you know," I replied slowly, "one week from to-day." On that assurance they left; and when they had gone I crossed once more
to the lower shelf that contained my letter-files. I turned up the file
for 1900 once more. During their visit I had had an idea. I ran through the letters, and then replaced them.... Yes, I ought to be able to let them know within the week. V

Against the day when I myself shall come to die, there are in the
pigeon-holes of the newspaper libraries certain biographical records
that deal roughly with the outward facts of my life; and these,
supplemented by documents I shall place in the hands of my executors,
will tell the story of how I leaped at a bound into wealth and fame with
the publication of _The Cases of Martin Renard_. I will set down as much
of that story as has its bearing on my present tale. _Martin Renard_ was not immediately accepted by the first editor to whom
it was offered. It does not suffice that in order to be popular a thing
shall be merely good--or bad; it must be bad--or good--in a particular
way. For taking the responsibility when they happen to miss that
particular way editors are paid their salaries. When they happen to hit
it they grow fat on circulation-money: Since it becomes me ill to quarrel
with the way in which any man earns his money, I content myself with
merely stating the fact. By the time the fourth editor had refused my series I was about at my
last gasp. To write the things at all I had had to sink four months in
time; and debts, writs and pawnshops were my familiars. I was little
better off than Andriaovsky at his very worst. I had read the first of
the _Martin Renards_ to him, by the way; the gigantic outburst of mirth
with which he had received it had not encouraged me to read him a second. I wrote the others in secret. I wrote the things in the spring and summer of 1900; and by the last day
of September I was confident that I had at last sold them. Except by a
flagrant breach of faith, the editor in whose desk they reposed could
hardly decline them. As it subsequently happened, I have now nothing but
gratitude for him that he did, after all, decline them; for I had a
duplicate copy "on offer" in another quarter. He declined them, I say; and I was free to possess my soul again among my
writs, debts and pawnshops. But four days later I received the alternative offer. It was from the
_Falchion_. The _Falchion_, as you may remember, has since run no less
than five complete series of _Martin Renards_. It bought "both sides,"
that is to say, both British and American serial rights. Of the twelve
_Martin Renards_ I had written, my wise agent had offered the _Falchion_
six only. On his advice I accepted the offer. Instantaneously with the publication of those six stories came my
success. In two continents I was "home"--home in the hearts of the
public. I had my small cheque--it was not much more than a hundred
pounds--but "Wait," said my agent; "let's see what we can do with the
other six...."

Precisely what he did with them only he and I know; but I don't mind
saying that £3000 did not buy my first serial rights. Then came second
and third rights, and after them the book rights, British, American, and
Colonial. Then came the translation rights. In French, my creation is, of
course, as in English, _Martin Renard_; in German he is Martin Fuchs; and
by a similar process you can put him--my translators have put him--into
Italian, Swedish, Norwegian, Russian, and three-fourths of the tongues of
Europe. And this was the first series only. It was only with the second
series that the full splendour of my success appeared. My very imitators
grew rich; my agent's income from his comparatively small percentage on
my royalties was handsome; and he chuckled and bade me wait for the
dramatic rights and the day when the touring companies should get to
business.... I had "got there." And I remember, sadly enough now, my first resolution when the day came
when I was able to survey the situation with anything approaching calm. It was, "Enough." For the rest of my days I need not know poverty again. Thenceforward I need not, unless I chose, do any but worthy work. _Martin
Renard_ had served his purpose handsomely, and I intended to have nothing
more to do with him. Then came that dazzling offer for the second series.... I accepted it. I accepted the third likewise; and I have told you about the fourth.... I have tried to kill _Martin Renard_. He was killing me. I have, in
the pages of the _Falchion_, actually killed him; but I have had to
resuscitate him. I cannot escape from him.... I am not setting down one word more of this than bears directly on my
tale of Andriaovsky's "Life." For those days, when my whole future had
hung in the balance, _were the very days covered by that portion of
Andriaovsky's life at which I had now arrived_. I had reached, and was
hesitating at, our point of divergence. Those checks and releases which I
had at first found so unaccountable corresponded with the vicissitudes of
the _Martin Renard_ negotiations. The actual dates did not, of course, coincide--I had quickly discovered
the falsity of that scent. Neither did the intervals between them, with
the exception of those few days in which I had been unable to complete
that half-written sentence--the few days immediately prior to my
(parallel) acceptance by the _Falchion_. But, by that other reckoning
of time, of mental and spiritual experience, _they tallied exactly_.