'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.'