“Just what one might have expected you to do,” said Mr Prosser, unkindly. “Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something in this. You haven’t got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in a court of law, of course; but still, I’m inclined to believe you. For one thing, you haven’t the intelligence to invent such a story.”
Owen thanked him.
“In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied.”
It seemed to Owen that Mr. Prosser was tending to get a little above himself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but that appeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort of judge and master of the ceremonies.
“That’s very good of you,” he said; “but will Edith Butler be satisfied? That’s more to the point.”
“I am Edith Butler,” said Mr. Prosser.
Owen stopped. “You?”
“You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn’t have told you if I could have helped it. It isn’t a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don’t goggle at me like a fish! Haven’t you heard of pseudonyms before?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, never mind. Take it from me that I am Edith Butler. Now listen to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country. There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the fact that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of thing you would have done, to put no name on the thing.”
“I enclosed a letter, anyhow.”
“There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. There was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as ‘Dear Madam.’ But one thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent me from some hotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?”
“I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham’s. I was stopping there.”
“You pass,” said Mr. Prosser. “It was Wilbraham’s.”
Owen’s heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.
“Then do you mean to say that it’s all right—that you believe—”
“I do,” said Mr. Prosser. “By the way,” he said, “the notice of White Roses went up last night.”
Owen’s heart turned to lead.
“But—but—” he stammered. “But to-night the house was packed.”
“It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London were there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,” he cried, with sudden vehemence, “serve ’em right. If I told them once it would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public won’t stand that sort of blithering twaddle.”