Conducted to the office of
the junior partner, Mr. Vimpany found himself in the presence of a
stranger, occupied in turning over the pages of a newspaper. When his
name was announced, the publisher started, and handed his newspaper to
the doctor.
"This is a coincidence," he said. "I was looking, sir, for your name in
the pages which I have just put into your hand. Surely the editor can't
have refused to publish your letter?"
Mr. Vimpany was sober, and therefore sad, and therefore (again) not to
be trifled with by a mystifying reception. "I don't understand you," he
answered gruffly. "What do you mean?"
"Is it possible that you have not seen last week's number of the
paper?" Mr. Paul asked. "And you a literary man!" He forthwith produced
the last week's number, and opened it at the right place. "Read that,
sir," he said, with something in his manner which looked like virtuous
indignation.
Mr. Vimpany found himself confronted by a letter addressed to the
editor. It was signed by an eminent physician, whose portrait had
appeared in the first serial part of the new work--accompanied by a
brief memoir of his life, which purported to be written by himself. Not
one line of the autobiography (this celebrated person declared) had
proceeded from his pen.
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