When the Professor left Harviss's office, the manuscript remained
behind. He thought he had been taken by the huge irony of the
situation--by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its original
form, as Harviss had said, the book would have addressed itself to a
very limited circle: now it would include the world. The elect would
understand; the crowd would not; and his work would thus serve a double
purpose. And, after all, nothing was changed in the situation; not a
word of the book was to be altered. The change was merely in the
publisher's point of view, and in the "tip" he was to give the
reviewers. The Professor had only to hold his tongue and look serious.
These arguments found a strong reinforcement in the large premium which
expressed Harviss's sense of his opportunity. As a satire, the book
would have brought its author nothing; in fact, its cost would have
come out of his own pocket, since, as Harviss assured him, no publisher
would have risked taking it. But as a profession of faith, as the
recantation of an eminent biologist, whose leanings had hitherto been
supposed to be toward a cold determinism, it would bring in a steady
income to author and publisher. The offer found the Professor in a
moment of financial perplexity. His illness, his unwonted holiday, the
necessity of postponing a course of well-paid lectures, had combined to
diminish his resources; and when Harviss offered him an advance of a
thousand dollars the esoteric savour of the joke became irresistible.
It was still as a joke that he persisted in regarding the transaction;
and though he had pledged himself not to betray the real intent of the
book, he held _in petto_ the notion of some day being able to take the
public into his confidence. As for the initiated, they would know at
once: and however long a face he pulled, his colleagues would see the
tongue in his cheek. Meanwhile it fortunately happened that, even if
the book should achieve the kind of triumph prophesied by Harviss, it
would not appreciably injure its author's professional standing.
Professor Linyard was known chiefly as a microscopist. On the structure
and habits of a certain class of coleoptera he was the most
distinguished living authority; but none save his intimate friends knew
what generalizations on the destiny of man he had drawn from these
special studies. He might have published a treatise on the Filioque
without disturbing the confidence of those on whose approval his
reputation rested; and moreover he was sustained by the thought that
one glance at his book would let them into its secret. In fact, so sure
was he of this that he wondered the astute Harviss had cared to risk
such speedy exposure. But Harviss had probably reflected that even in
this reverberating age the opinions of the laboratory do not easily
reach the street; and the Professor, at any rate, was not bound to
offer advice on this point.
The determining cause of his consent was the fact that the book was
already in press. The Professor knew little about the workings of the
press, but the phrase gave him a sense of finality, of having been
caught himself in the toils of that mysterious engine. If he had had
time to think the matter over, his scruples might have dragged him
back; but his conscience was eased by the futility of resistance.