As the clock in the library of the club struck midnight, Condy laid down his pen, shoved the closely written sheets of paper from him, and leaned back in his chair, his fingers to his tired eyes.  He was sitting at a desk in one of the further corners of the room and shut off by a great Japanese screen.  He was in his shirt-sleeves, his hair was tumbled, his fingers ink-stained, and his face a little pale.

Since late in the evening he had been steadily writing.  Three chapters of “In Defiance of Authority” were done, and he was now at work on the fourth.  The day after the excursion to the Presidio ­that wonderful event which seemed to Condy to mark the birthday of some new man within him ­the idea had suddenly occurred to him that Captain Jack’s story of the club of the exiles, the boom restaurant, and the filibustering expedition was precisely the novel of adventure of which the Centennial Company had spoken.  At once he had set to work upon it, with an enthusiasm that, with shut teeth, he declared would not be lacking in energy.  The story would have to be written out of his business hours.  That meant he would have to give up his evenings to it.  But he had done this, and for nearly a week had settled himself to his task in the quiet corner of the club at eight o’clock, and held to it resolutely until twelve.

The first two chapters had run off his pen with delightful ease.  The third came harder; the events and incidents of the story became confused and contradictory; the character of Billy Isham obstinately refused to take the prominent place which Condy had designed for him; and with the beginning of the fourth chapter, Condy had finally come to know the enormous difficulties, the exasperating complications, the discouragements that begin anew with every paragraph, the obstacles that refuse to be surmounted, and all the pain, the labor, the downright mental travail and anguish that fall to the lot of the writer of novels.

To write a short story with the end in plain sight from the beginning was an easy matter compared to the upbuilding, grain by grain, atom by atom, of the fabric of “In Defiance of Authority.”  Condy soon found that there was but one way to go about the business.  He must shut his eyes to the end of his novel ­that far-off, divine event ­and take his task chapter by chapter, even paragraph by paragraph; grinding out the tale, as it were, by main strength, driving his pen from line to line, hating the effort, happy only with the termination of each chapter, and working away, hour by hour, minute by minute, with the dogged, sullen, hammer-and-tongs obstinacy of the galley-slave, scourged to his daily toil.

At times the tale, apparently out of sheer perversity, would come to a full stop.  To write another word seemed beyond the power of human ingenuity, and for an hour or more Condy would sit scowling at the half-written page, gnawing his nails, scouring his hair, dipping his pen into the ink-well, and squaring himself to the sheet of paper, all to no purpose.

There was no pleasure in it for him.  A character once fixed in his mind, a scene once pictured in his imagination, and even before he had written a word the character lost the charm of its novelty, the scene the freshness of its original conception.  Then, with infinite painstaking and with a patience little short of miraculous, he must slowly build up, brick by brick, the plan his brain had outlined in a single instant.  It was all work ­hard, disagreeable, laborious work; and no juggling with phrases, no false notions as to the “delight of creation,” could make it appear otherwise.  “And for what,” he muttered as he rose, rolled up his sheaf of manuscript, and put on his coat; “what do I do it for, I don’t know.”

It was beyond question that, had he begun his novel three months before this time, Condy would have long since abandoned the hateful task.  But Blix had changed all that.  A sudden male force had begun to develop in Condy.  A master-emotion had shaken him, and he had commenced to see and to feel the serious, more abiding, and perhaps the sterner side of life.  Blix had steadied him, there was no denying that.  He was not quite the same boyish, hairbrained fellow who had made “a buffoon of himself” in the Chinese restaurant, three months before.

The cars had stopped running by the time Condy reached the street.  He walked home and flung himself to bed, his mind tired, his nerves unstrung, and all the blood of his body apparently concentrated in his brain.  Working at night after writing all day long was telling upon him, and he knew it.

What with his work and his companionship with Blix, Condy soon began to drop out of his wonted place in his “set.”  He was obliged to decline one invitation after another that would take him out in the evening, and instead of lunching at his club with Sargeant or George Hands, as he had been accustomed to do at one time, he fell into another habit of lunching with Blix at the flat on Washington Street, and spending the two hours allowed to him in the middle of the day in her company.

Condy’s desertion of them was often spoken of by the men of his club with whom he had been at one time so intimate, and the subject happened to be brought up again one noon when Jack Carter was in the club as George Hands’ guest.  Hands, Carter, and Eckert were at one of the windows over their after-dinner cigars and liqueurs.

“I say,” said Eckert suddenly, “who’s that girl across the street there ­the one in black, just going by that furrier’s sign?  I’ve seen her somewhere before.  Know who it is?”

“That’s Miss Bessemer, isn’t it?” said George Hands, leaning forward.  “Rather a stunning-looking girl.”

“Yes, that’s Travis Bessemer,” assented Jack Carter; adding, a moment later, “it’s too bad about that girl.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Eckert.

Carter lifted a shoulder.  “Isn’t anything the matter as far as I know, only somehow the best people have dropped her.  She used to be received everywhere.”

“Come to think, I haven’t seen her out much this season,” said Eckert.  “But I heard she had bolted from ‘Society’ with the big S, and was going East ­going to study medicine, I believe.”

“I’ve always noticed,” said Carter, with a smile, “that so soon as a girl is declassee, she develops a purpose in life and gets earnest, and all that sort of thing.

“Oh, well, come,” growled George Hands, “Travis Bessemer is not declassee.”

“I didn’t say she was,” answered Carter; “but she has made herself talked about a good deal lately.  Going around with Rivers, as she does, isn’t the most discreet thing in the world.  Of course, it’s all right, but it all makes talk, and I came across them by a grove of trees out on the links the other day ­”

“Yes,” observed Sargeant, leaning on the back of Carter’s armchair; “yes; and I noticed, too, that she cut you dead.  You fellows should have been there,” he went on, in perfect good humor, turning to the others.  “You missed a good little scene.  Rivers and Miss Bessemer had been taking a tramp over the Reservation ­and, by the way, it’s a great place to walk, so my sister tells me; she and Dick Forsythe take a constitutional out there every Saturday morning ­well, as I was saying, Rivers and Miss Bessemer came upon our party rather unexpectedly.  We were all togged out in our golfing bags, and I presume we looked more like tailor’s models, posing for the gallery, than people who were taking an outing; but Rivers and Miss Bessemer had been regularly exercising; looked as though they had done their fifteen miles since morning.  They had their old clothes on, and they were dusty and muddy.

“You would have thought that a young girl such as Miss Bessemer is ­for she’s very young ­would have been a little embarrassed at running up against such a spick and span lot as we were.  Not a bit of it; didn’t lose her poise for a moment.  She bowed to my sister and to me, as though from the top of a drag, by Jove! and as though she were fresh from Redfern and Virot.  You know a girl that can manage herself that way is a thoroughbred.  She even remembered to cut little Johnnie Carter here, because Johnnie forced himself upon her one night at a dance when he was drunk; didn’t she, Johnnie?  Johnnie came up to her there, out on the links, fresh as a daisy, and put out his hand, with, ‘Why, how do you do, Miss Bessemer?’ and ‘wherever did you come from?’ and ‘I haven’t seen you in so long’; and she says, ’No, not since our last dance, I believe, Mr. Carter,’ and looked at his hand as though it was something funny.

“Little Johnnie mumbled and flushed and stammered and backed off; and it was well that he did, because Rivers had begun to get red around the wattles.  I say the little girl is a thoroughbred, and my sister wants to give her a dinner as soon as she comes out.  But Johnnie says she’s declassee, so may be my sister had better think it over.”

“I didn’t say she was declassee,” exclaimed Carter.  “I only said she would do well to be more careful.”

Sargeant shifted his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, one eye shut to avoid the smoke.

“One might say as much of lots of people,” he answered.

“I don’t like your tone!” Carter flared out.

“Oh, go to the devil, Johnnie!  Shall we all have a drink?”

On the Friday evening of that week, Condy set himself to his work at his accustomed hour.  But he had had a hard day on the “Times,” Supplement, and his brain, like an overdriven horse, refused to work.  In half an hour he had not written a paragraph.

“I thought it would be better, in the end, to loaf for one evening,” he explained to Blix, some twenty minutes later, as they settled themselves in the little dining-room.  “I can go at it better to-morrow.  See how you like this last chapter.”

Blix was enthusiastic over “In Defiance of Authority.”  Condy had told her the outline of the story, and had read to her each chapter as he finished it.

“It’s the best thing you have ever done, Condy, and you know it.  I suppose it has faults, but I don’t care anything about them.  It’s the story itself that’s so interesting.  After that first chapter of the boom restaurant and the exiles’ club, nobody would want to lay the book down.  You’re doing the best work of your life so far, and you stick to it.”

“It’s grinding out copy for the Supplement at the same time that takes all the starch out of me.  You’ve no idea what it means to write all day, and then sit down and write all evening.”

“I wish you could get off the ‘Times,’” said Blix.  “You’re just giving the best part of your life to hack work, and now it’s interfering with your novel.  I know you could do better work on your novel if you didn’t have to work on the ‘Times,’ couldn’t you?”

“Oh, if you come to that, of course I could,” he answered.  “But they won’t give me a vacation.  I was sounding the editor on it day before yesterday.  No; I’ll have to manage somehow to swing the two together.”

“Well, let’s not talk shop now.  Condy.  You need a rest.  Do you want to play poker?”

They played for upward of an hour that evening, and Condy, as usual, lost.  His ill-luck was positively astonishing.  During the last two months he had played poker with Blix on an average of three or four evenings in the week, and at the close of every game it was Blix who had all the chips.

Blix had come to know the game quite as well, if not better, than he.  She could almost invariably tell when Condy held a good hand, but on her part could assume an air of indifference absolutely inscrutable.

“Cards?” said Condy, picking up the deck after the deal.

“I’ll stand pat, Condy.”

“The deuce you say,” he answered, with a stare.  “I’ll take three.”

“I’ll pass it up to you,” continued Blix gravely.

“Well ­well, I’ll bet you five chips.”

“Raise you twenty.”

Condy studied his hand, laid down the cards, picked them up again, scratched his head, and moved uneasily in his place.  Then he threw down two high pairs.

“No,” he said; “I won’t see you.  What did you have?  Let’s see, just for the fun of it.”

Blix spread her cards on the table.

“Not a blessed thing!” exclaimed Condy.  “I might have known it.  There’s my last dollar gone, too.  Lend me fifty cents, Blix.”

Blix shook her head.

“Why, what a little niggard!” he exclaimed aggrievedly.  “I’ll pay them all back to you.”

“Now, why should I lend you money to play against me?  I’ll not give you a chip; and, besides, I don’t want to play any more.  Let’s stop.”

“I’ve a mind to stop for good; stop playing even with you.”

Blix gave a little cry of joy.

“Oh, Condy, will you, could you? and never, never touch a card again? never play for money?  I’d be so happy ­but don’t unless you know you would keep your promise.  I would much rather have you play every night, down there at your club, than break your promise.”

Condy fell silent, biting thoughtfully at the knuckle of a forefinger.

“Think twice about it, Condy,” urged Blix; “because this would be for always.”

Condy hesitated; then, abstractedly and as though speaking to himself: 

“It’s different now.  Before we took that ­three months ago, I don’t say.  It was harder for me to quit then, but now ­well, everything is different now; and it would please you, Blixy!”

“More than anything else I can think of, Condy.”

He gave her his hand.

“That settles it,” he said quietly.  “I’ll never gamble again, Blix.”

Blix gripped his hand hard, then jumped up, and, with a quick breath of satisfaction, gathered up the cards and chips and flung them into the fireplace.

“Oh, I’m so glad that’s over with,” she exclaimed, her little eyes dancing.  “I’ve pretended to like it, but I’ve hated it all the time.  You don’t know how I’ve hated it!  What men can see in it to make them sit up all night long is beyond me.  And you truly mean, Condy, that you never will gamble again?  Yes, I know you mean it this time.  Oh, I’m so happy I could sing!”

“Good Heavens, don’t do that!” he cried quickly.  “You’re a nice, amiable girl, Blix, even if you’re not pretty, and you ­”

“Oh, bother you!” she retorted; “but you promise?”

“On my honor.”

“That’s enough,” she said quietly.

But even when “loafing” as he was this evening, Condy could not rid himself of the thought and recollection of his novel; resting or writing, it haunted him.  Otherwise he would not have been the story-writer that he was.  From now on until he should set down the last sentence, the “thing” was never to let him alone, never to allow him a moment’s peace.  He could think of nothing else, could talk of nothing else; every faculty of his brain, every sense of observation or imagination incessantly concentrated themselves upon this one point.

As they sat in the bay window watching the moon rise, his mind was still busy with it, and he suddenly broke out: 

“I ought to work some kind of a treasure into the yarn.  What’s a story of adventure without a treasure?  By Jove, Blix, I wish I could give my whole time to this stuff!  It’s ripping good material, and it ought to be handled as carefully as glass.  Ought to be worked up, you know.”

“Condy,” said Blix, looking at him intently, “what is it stands in your way of leaving the ‘Times’?  Would they take you back if you left them long enough to write your novel?  You could write it in a month, couldn’t you, if you had nothing else to do?  Suppose you left them for a month ­would they hold your place for you?”

“Yes ­yes, I think they would; but in the meanwhile, Blix ­there’s the rub.  I’ve never saved a cent out of my salary.  When I stop, my pay stops, and wherewithal would I be fed?  What are you looking for in that drawer ­matches?  Here, I’ve got a match.”

Blix faced about at the sideboard, shutting the drawer by leaning against it.  In both hands she held one of the delft sugar-bowls.  She came up to the table, and emptied its contents upon the blue denim table-cover ­two or three gold pieces, some fifteen silver dollars, and a handful of small change.

Disregarding all Condy’s inquiries, she counted it, making little piles of the gold and silver and nickel pieces.

“Thirty-five and seven is forty-two,” she murmured, counting off on her fingers, “and six is forty-eight, and ten is fifty-eight, and ten is sixty-eight; and here is ten, twenty, thirty, fifty-five cents in change.”  She thrust it all toward him, across the table.  “There,” she said, “is your wherewithal.”

Condy stared.  “My wherewithal!” he muttered.

“It ought to be enough for over a month.”

“Where did you get all that?  Whose is it?”

“It’s your money, Condy.  You loaned it to me, and now it has come in very handy.”

“I loaned it to you?”

“It’s the money I won from you during the time you’ve been playing poker with me.  You didn’t know it would amount to so much, did you?”

“Pshaw, I’ll not touch it!” he exclaimed, drawing back from the money as though it was red-hot.

“Yes, you will,” she told him.  “I’ve been saving it up for you, Condy, every penny of it, from the first day we played down there at the lake; and I always told myself that the moment you made up your mind to quit playing, I would give it back to you.”

“Why, the very idea!” he vociferated, his hands deep in his pockets, his face scarlet.  “It’s ­it’s preposterous, Blix!  I won’t let you talk about it even ­I won’t touch a nickel of that money.  But, Blix, you’re ­you’re ­the finest woman I ever knew.  You’re a man’s woman, that’s what you are.”  He set his teeth.  “If you loved a man, you’d be a regular pal to him; you’d back him up, you’d stand by him till the last gun was fired.  I could do anything if a woman like you cared for me.  Why, Blix, I ­you haven’t any idea ­” He cleared his throat, stopping abruptly.

“But you must take this money,” she answered; “Your money.  If you didn’t, Condy, it would make me out nothing more nor less than a gambler.  I wouldn’t have dreamed of playing cards with you if I had ever intended to keep one penny of your money.  From the very start I intended to keep it for you, and give it back to you so soon as you would stop; and now you have a chance to put this money to a good use.  You don’t have to stay on the ‘Times’ now.  You can’t do your novel justice while you are doing your hack work at the same time, and I do so want ‘In Defiance of Authority’ to be a success.  I’ve faith in you, Condy.  I know if you got the opportunity you would make a success.”

“But you and I have played like two men playing,” exclaimed Condy.  “How would it look if Sargeant, say, should give me back the money he had won from me?  What a cad I would be to take it!”

“That’s just it ­we’ve not played like two men.  Then I would have been a gambler.  I’ve played with you because I thought it would make a way for you to break off with the habit; and knowing as I did how fond you were of playing cards and how bad it was for you, how wicked it would have been for me to have played with you in any other spirit!  Don’t you see?  And as it has turned out, you’ve given up playing, and you’ve enough money to make it possible for you to write your novel.  The Centennial Company have asked you to try a story of adventure for them, you’ve found one that is splendid, you’re just the man who could handle it, and now you’ve got the money to make it possible.  Condy,” she exclaimed suddenly, “don’t you see your chance?  Aren’t you a big enough man to see your chance when it comes?  And, besides, do you think I would take money from you?  Can’t you understand?  If you don’t take this money that belongs to you, you would insult me.  That is just the way I would feel about it.  You must see that.  If you care for me at all, you’ll take it.”

The editor of the Sunday Supplement put his toothpick behind his ear and fixed Condy with his eyeglasses.

“Well, it’s like this, Rivers,” he said.  “Of course, you know your own business best.  If you stay on here with us, it will be all right.  But I may as well tell you that I don’t believe I can hold your place for a month.  I can’t get a man in here to do your work for just a month, and then fire him out at the end of that time.  I don’t like to lose you, but if you have an opportunity to get in on another paper during this vacation of yours, you’re at liberty to do so, for all of me.”

“Then you think my chance of coming back here would be pretty slim if I leave for a month now?”

“That’s right.”

There was a silence.  Condy hesitated; then he rose.

“I’ll take the chance,” he announced.

To Blix, that evening, as he told her of the affair, he said:  “It’s neck or nothing now, Blix.”