On the day after Lord Harry's description of the state of his mind
reached London, a gentleman presented himself at the publishing office
of Messrs. Boldside Brothers, and asked for the senior partner, Mr.
Peter Boldside. When he sent in his card, it bore the name of "Mr.
Vimpany."
"To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted, sir, for the honour of
your visit?" the senior partner inquired. His ingratiating manners, his
genial smile, his roundly resonant voice, were personal advantages of
which he made a merciless use. The literary customer who entered the
office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own
expense, generally decided to pay the penalty when he encountered Mr.
Peter Boldside.
"I want to inquire about the sale of my work," Mr. Vimpany replied.
"Ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. You must go to my
brother."
Mr. Vimpany protested. "You mentioned the terms when I first applied to
you," he said, "and you signed the agreement."
"That is in my department," the senior partner gently explained. "And
I shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits
shall fall due. But our sales of works are in the department of my
brother, Mr. Paul Boldside." He rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and
received his instructions: "Mr. Paul. Good-morning, doctor."
Mr. Paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated--without the
deep voice, and without the genial smile. 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. Mr. Vimpany had impudently published an
imaginary memoir, full of false reports and scandalous inventions--and
this after he had been referred to a trustworthy source for the
necessary particulars. Stating these facts, the indignant physician
cautioned readers to beware of purchasing a work which, so far as he
was concerned, was nothing less than a fraud on the public.