old
Humpage,' he thought. 'What can he want with _me_?' The other found
words at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'I see I am in the
presence of the right person,' he began. 'I have come to ask you a
plain question.' Here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, and
threw it on the table before Mark--it was a copy of 'Illusion.' 'I am
told you are in the best position to give me information on the
subject. Will you kindly give me the name--the _real_ name--of the
author of this book? I have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it.'
And he glared down at Mark, who had a sudden and disagreeable
sensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. Could this
terrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become of
him?

Instinct rather than reason kept him from betraying himself by words.
'Th-that's a rather extraordinary question, sir,' he gasped faintly.

'Perhaps it is,' said the other; 'but I've asked it, and I want an
answer.'

'If the author of the book,' said Mark, 'had wished his real name to
be known, I suppose he would have printed it.'

'Have the goodness not to equivocate with me, sir. It's quite useless,
as you will understand when I tell you that I happen to _know_'--(he
repeated this with withering scorn)--'I happen to know the name of the
real author of this--this precious production. I had it, let me tell
you, on very excellent authority.'

'Who told you?' said Mark, and his voice seemed to him to come from
down stairs. Had Holroyd made a confidant of this angry old gentleman?

'A gentleman whose relation I think you have the privilege to be, sir.
Come, you see _I_ know you, Mr.--Mr. Cyril Ernstone,' he sneered. 'Are
you prepared to deny it?'

Mark drew a long sweet breath of relief. What a fright he had had!
This old gentleman evidently supposed he had unearthed a great
literary secret; but why had it made him so angry?

'Certainly not,' he replied, firm and composed again now. 'I _am_ Mr.
Cyril Ernstone. I'm very sorry if it annoys you.'

'It _does_ annoy me, sir. I have a right to be annoyed, and you know
the reason well enough!'

'Do you know,' said Mark languidly, 'I'm really afraid I don't.'

'Then I'll tell you, sir. In this novel of yours you've put a
character called--wait a bit--ah, yes, called Blackshaw, a retired
country solicitor, sir.'

'Very likely,' said Mark, who had been getting rather rusty with
'Illusion' of late.

'_I'm_ a retired country