"Did you write that book alone—I mean without help or guidance?"
"Quite alone!" she said distinctly.
He picked up a book from the table. It was Hartley's copy of The Silver Poppy. A mounting wave of crimson swept over Cordelia's face, leaving it, in turn, almost a dead white.
"One writes nothing quite alone," she added, smiling hastily. "I did have a little help, perhaps, but it was very little!"
"That's better. Could you tell me just how much?"
"Every author, I think, absorbs things that—But am I a prisoner before the bar?" she suddenly flashed back at him angrily. Then she saw his quiet smile, and an answering smile came to her own pale lips. "Or is it a—a joke?" she added.
"No," he said, "I'm afraid it's almost a tragedy."
"I don't understand," she said feebly.
"Perhaps I can help you to," he answered. "I have, for the first time, just finished reading The Silver Poppy. Miss Vaughan, The Silver Poppy was not written by you!"
She gave a little smothered cry of indignation, and started to her feet. Repellier's stern eyes were looking closely, challengingly, into hers, and she sank back in her chair again. Then she laughed a pitiable little laugh, and a touch of color came into her pale lips.