by your standing as a publicity man," continued Minot.
Mr. Trimmer stopped in his tracks.
"As a matter of fact," went on Minot. "I never heard of you or any of the things you claim to have advertised, until I came to San Marco."
Mr. Trimmer came slowly back up the grave walk.
"In just what inland hamlet, untouched by telegraph, telephone, newspaper and railroad," he asked, "have you been living?"
Minot dropped to a handy bench, and smiled up into Mr. Trimmer's thin face.
"New York City," he replied.
Mr. Trimmer glanced back at the lights of San Marco, hesitatingly. Then—it was really a cruel temptation—he sat down beside Minot on the bench.
"Do you mean to tell me," he inquired, "that you lived in New York two years ago and didn't hear of Cotrell's Ink Eraser?"
"Such was my unhappy fate," smiled Minot.
"Then you were in Ludlow Street jail, that's
