"But it doesn't!" I finished, smiling brilliantly at Mr. Penny, who appeared slightly confused.
Catching at a straw, which happened to be the beloved Lyric Hour, the Unknown—I simply can't call him Penny all the time—it's too ridiculous!—picked up the book, which was lying beside me, and immediately gave the most theatrical start I have ever seen. I've never seen plays, of course, but I have read them, and know stage directions when I see them in the flesh. This was a particularly good example of "confronted with the tell-tale revolver, Sebastian starts violently...."
"Richard Warren," read the Stranger aloud, with a very poor affectation of indifference.
"Yes," I said, "do you know him?"
The Penny turned a beautiful crimson.
"I've read the book," he faltered.
My back may be weak, but my eyes are good. And the glance that passed between Dr. Denton and his friend did not escape me.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, old man," said the former soothingly, "particularly as it appears to be Miss Carroll's chief literary diet."
"Is it?" asked my guest, rather excitedly, I thought.
"I adore it!" I answered, with all the schoolgirl fervor I could muster. And it rang true, Diary, for it is!