ld not be interrupted I wandered off to a secluded
nook of the garden down the drive away from the house and gave myself up
to the story. From the first it went with a rare swing, incident
following incident, every trait of character presented objectively in
fine scorn of analysis. There were little pen pictures of grim scenes
faultless in their definition and restraint. There was a girl in it, a
wild, clean-limbed, woodland thing who especially moved my admiration.
The more I read the more fascinated did I become, and the more did I
doubt whether a single line in it had been written by Adrian Boldero.

After a long spell, I took out my watch. It was twenty past one. We
lunched at half-past. I rose, went towards the house and came upon
Jaffery and Susan. The latter I despatched peremptorily to her
ablutions. Alone with Jaffery, I challenged him.

"You hulking baby," said I, "what's the good of pretending with me? Why
didn't you tell me at once that you had written it yourself?"

He looked at me anxiously. "What makes you think so?"

"The simple intelligence possessed by the average adult. First," I
continued, as he made no reply but stood staring at me in ingenuous
discomfort, "you couldn't have got this out of poor Adrian's mush;
secondly, Adrian hadn't the experience of life to have written it;
thirdly, I have read many brilliant descriptive articles in _The Daily
Gazette_ and have little difficulty in recognising the hand of Jaffery
Chayne."

"Good Lord!" said he. "It isn't as obvious as all that?"

I laughed. "Then you did write it?"

"Of course," he growled. "But I didn't want you to know. I tried to get
as near Tom Castleton as I could. Look here"--he gripped my
shoulder--"if it's such a transparent fraud, what the blazes is going
to happen?"

To some extent I reassured him. I was in a peculiar position, having
peculiar knowledge. Save Barbara, no other soul in the world had the
faintest suspicion of Adrian's tragedy. The forthcoming book would be
received without shadow of question as the work of the author of "_The
Diamond Gate_." The difference of style and treatment would be
attributed to the marvellous versatility of the dead genius. . . .
Jaffery's brow began to clear.

"What do you think of it--as far as you've gone?"

My enthusiastic answer expressed the sincerity of my appreciation. He
positively blushed and looked at me rather guiltily, like a schoolboy
detected in the act of helping an old w