Meanwhile, near Russell Square in London, in the corridors of Bloomsbury Publishing, Christopher was pacing back and forth like a cat on a hot tin roof.
As Barry came up the stairs carrying a stack of proofs, he almost bumped into him.
" Christopher?" Barry took a half step back, pulling the proof closer to his chest. "What are you doing here?"
Christopher stopped and glanced at him, his expression as complicated as if someone had stuffed a mouthful of Bertie Bott's Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans into his mouth.
What month is it?
Barry paused for a moment. "August? What's wrong?"
What about this time last year?
"Last August..." Barry paused, "... the manuscript for Harry Potter arrived. The first half of the first book, and the first half of the second book, both arrived around that time."
"Yes," Christopher emphasized, "For the past two years, I'd have new manuscripts by Allen Wayne on my desk around this time, but this year there's nothing."
Barry blinked, then switched the proof to his other arm and hugged it. "Maybe he's just been writing slowly this year?"
"No way." Christopher shook his head and began pacing again. "If he writes slowly, that's fine, I can wait."
He stopped and turned to face Barry: "But what's the date now?! It's been two whole months, Barry. From June until now, there's nothing on my desk except for submissions from other authors."
Barry's expression became subtle. He placed the proof on the windowsill next to him, put his hands in his pockets, leaned against the wall, and thought for a moment.
"Perhaps..." he began slowly, "He doesn't want to write anymore?"
Christopher turned around abruptly. "What?"
"Think about it," Barry shrugged, "Both books sold like hotcakes, especially the first one, which has already sold over ten million copies. He's made enough money to live on for several lifetimes."
"That's just how some people are; they stop once they've made enough money."
"But he didn't finish writing it!" Christopher's voice rose several octaves. "The story only goes up to the second book, there are so many clues left unexplained, so many foreshadowing elements left unresolved—"
"So what?" Barry spread his hands. "There are plenty of people who stop writing once they've made enough money."
"I've seen this kind of thing all the time in the publishing industry. You've been in the business longer than me, so you should know better than I do."
Christopher opened his mouth as if to refute something, but swallowed the words back.
He had indeed seen far too many examples of authors who wrote bestsellers, made a lot of money, and then disappeared.
But he always felt that Allen Wayne wasn't that kind of person.
There was something in those two books, something that's hard to describe in words.
Those details, those foreshadowings, those clues buried in the first book and only revealed in the second, are not something someone who plans to make enough money and run away would write.
Just as he was about to say something, a series of hurried footsteps came from the end of the corridor.
A young intern came running up, carrying a stack of manuscripts, and stopped panting in front of Christopher.
"Mr. Little, these are the submissions we received today. As usual, I've placed them on your desk."
He shoved the top stack of manuscripts into Christopher's hands, then turned and ran back.
Christopher glanced down at the stack of manuscripts. The top one was a manuscript by an unknown author, with the cover titled " Scotland Highlands Magic Chronicles."
He sighed and was about to hand it to Barry when Barry's hand was already outstretched.
"Let me take a look at this for you." Barry took the manuscript, flipped through it casually, and glanced at a few lines on the page.
Christopher looked at his nonchalant demeanor, and that pent-up frustration welled up inside him again.
"Do you think he's really not going to write anymore?" he asked, as if to Barry, but also as if to himself.
"Perhaps we should take the initiative to go find him. Should we send someone to check that address again, 13 Baker Street, from last time?"
"Didn't you already check?" Barry flipped through the manuscript without looking up. "How many times have you checked? You've practically searched every London."
"What if he moves?"
"Then how do you know where he is now?"
"I..." Christopher opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Allen Wayne is like a shadow, leaving behind manuscripts and royalties, but never his own trace.
"Perhaps we could place an ad," he suddenly said. "A missing person notice in the newspaper, something like, 'Mr. Allen Wayne, your publishing house misses you.'"
Barry finally looked up at him, his lips twitching slightly. "Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious!"
"You placed the ad, and then what? He saw it, came out to meet you, sat in your office, and chatted and laughed with you?"
Barry shook his head. " Christopher, you've been dealing with him for two years. Do you think he's that kind of person?"
Christopher fell silent.
He certainly knew Barry was right.
If Allen Wayne really wanted to make an appearance, he should have done so in his first year.
He even wired his royalties through some murky and unclear means, without leaving a single bank account.
He's practically a ghost writer.
"So we're just going to wait and see?" Christopher's voice lowered. "What if he really doesn't write anymore?"
"Then we'll just have to wait." Barry's tone was calm, almost cold. "We're the publisher, Christopher. If he doesn't give us the manuscript, there's nothing we can do."
He turned to the next page of the manuscript, his eyes darting quickly across the paper:
"That said, this book, * The Scotland Highlands Magic Chronicles *, is not bad. Although it can't compare to * Harry Potter *, it's at least passable."
He suddenly stopped talking.
Christopher, who had been lost in thought, looked up at Barry, who had abruptly stopped mid-sentence, and asked in a puzzled tone, "What's wrong? Is your writing not good?"
Barry did not answer.
He kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the manuscript in his hands, his fingers hovering over the edge of a certain page, as if he were frozen in place.
" Barry?" Christopher called again.
Barry slowly raised his head, a smile curving his lips.
"The third installment you've been longing for," he said, "Is here."
Christopher paused for a moment, stunned.
Then he lunged forward like he was launched from a slingshot, snatching the stack of manuscripts from Barry's hands.
Barry was knocked back a step by the bump, almost stepping on the stack of proofs on the windowsill.
But he wasn't angry; he just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, laughing at Christopher's impatient look.
Christopher turned to the first page.
The text on the cover was the font he had become most familiar with over the past two years, neat yet with a touch of casual freedom.
" Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Part 1)"
His fingers trembled slightly.
Then he quickly flipped to the table of contents.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3... His gaze slid down the table of contents until he reached the last chapter.
Chapter Eleven: Firebolt.
Christopher stared at that number for several seconds.
Eleven chapters in total!
The first half of the first book has only nine chapters, and the first half of the second book also has only nine chapters.
This time, the manuscript was two chapters longer than the previous two.
"Chapter eleven." He looked up at Barry, his voice brimming with barely suppressed excitement. "The first two parts only had nine chapters each, but this one has eleven!"
"I saw it." Barry nodded, a hint of surprise in his expression. "It seems he's been even more focused on writing this year."
Christopher didn't have time to say anything more to him.
He tucked the manuscript into his arms, turned, and headed towards his office. "I need to take a look at this right away."
"Wait!" Barry caught up from behind, his pace much faster than usual. "I want to see too!"
Christopher, without turning his head, said, "Go read your book, * The Scotland Highlands Magic Chronicles *, first."
"To hell with the Scotland Highlands." Barry caught up with him and walked into the office beside him. "I want to read Harry Potter!"
"It's no fun watching it alone. Let me tell you, last time I watched the second movie, I burst out laughing in the office, and Emily next door thought I was crazy."