"You wouldn't--" I began.
"Oh yes, I would," replied the author, pleasantly. "Would you like to
see the cell?"
"I would like to see the outside of your castle!" I cried, turning to
the stairs.
The novelist laughed hollowly at the expression of hopelessness that
came over my face as I observed that a huge iron grating had slid down
from above and cut off my retreat.
"I am sorry, Miss Witherup, but I haven't got the outside of my castle
in here. If I had I'd show it to you at once," he said.
"I beg of you, sir," I cried, going down on my knees before him. "Do
let me go. I--"
"Don't be emotional, my dear," he replied, in a nice, fatherly way. "You
will have an alternative. When I have receipted this," he added, writing
out a bill and tossing it to me--"when I have receipted this, you can
go."
I glanced at the paper. It called for L1500 for an interview of an hour
and a half, at L1000 an hour.
"If you will give me your check for that amount, you may go. Otherwise I
am afraid I shall have to use you for a model."
"I have only L1200 in the bank," I replied, bursting into tears.
"It will suffice," said he. "Your terror will be worth L300 to me in a
short story I am writing for the Manx _Sunday Whirald_."
Whereupon I wrote him a check for L1200 and made my escape.
"I'll expose you to the world!" I roared back at him in my wrath as I
walked down the path to the road.
"Do," he cried. "I never object to a free advertisement. By-bye."
With that I left him, and hastened back to London to stop payment on
the check; but in some fashion he got the better of me, for it happened
to be on a bank holiday that I arrived, and ere I could give notice to
the cashier to refuse to honor my draft it had been cashed.