“What? It’s not the Memoirs? I understood that they’d been burnt.”
“What do you take me for?” demanded Anthony. “You don’t think I’d fall for a story like that, do you? I rang up the publishers at once, found out that the other was a fake call, and arranged accordingly. I made up a dummy package as I’d been directed to do. But I put the real package in the Manager’s safe and handed over the dummy. The Memoirs have never been out of my possession.”
“Bully for you, my son,” said Jimmy.
“Oh, Anthony,” cried Virginia. “You’re not going to let them be published?”
“I can’t help myself. I can’t let a pal like Jimmy down. But you needn’t worry. I’ve had time to wade through them, and I see now why people always hint that bigwigs don’t write their own reminiscences but hire some one to do it for them. As a writer, Stylptitch is an insufferable bore. He proses on about statecraft, and doesn’t go in for any racy and indiscreet anecdotes. His ruling passion of secrecy held strong to the end. There’s not a word in the Memoirs from beginning to end to flutter the susceptibilities of the most difficult politician. I rang up Balderson to-day, and arranged with him that I’d deliver the manuscript to-night before midnight. But Jimmy can do his own dirty work now that’s he’s here.”
“I’m off,” said Jimmy. “I like the idea of that thousand pounds—especially when I’d made up my mind I was down and out.”
“Half a second,” said Anthony. “I’ve got a confession to make to you, Virginia. Something that every one else knows, but that I haven’t yet told you.”
“I don’t mind how many strange women you’ve loved so long as you don’t tell me about them.”
“Women!” said Anthony, with a virtuous air. “Women indeed? You ask James here what kind of women I was going about with last time he saw me.”
“Frumps,” said Jimmy solemnly. “Utter frumps. Not one a day under forty-five.”