"Alter it?" Aliette started. Here, at last, was a gleam of hope.
"You see," the purr grew pronounced, "this is not the first time, nor do I expect it will be the last, that the work of a talented author has required legal revision. As a matter of cold fact, most modern novels are more or less libelous. Publishers are constantly asking my advice on the point. In the case of Mrs. Cavendish's work, curiously enough, it was asked once before. I think I may say, without breaking confidence, that I suggested to Sir Frederick then, as I am suggesting to you now, that certain alterations should be made."
"And were they?" The gleam of hope brightened.
"After a great deal of protest, yes."
"But then"--the gleam flickered out--"Mrs. Cavendish was alive. She made the alterations herself."
"Your pardon." Sir Peter almost permitted himself a wink. "She did nothing of the sort. She told Sir Frederick and myself that we were vandals; and went off to Italy vowing she'd never set pen to paper again. However, she left the manuscript behind; and we--er--did what was necessary."
"You mean to say that Ronnie's mother let some one else tamper with her work?"
"Tamper!" This time the baronet actually did wink. "I wonder how my friend and client, Mr. Paul Flower, who--to tell you the truth--made the alterations on which I insisted, would like to hear himself described as a tamperer."
"And you think that Mr. Flower would----"
The house-telephone buzzed, interrupting them. Sir Peter answered it: "I told you I wasn't to be disturbed.... Oh, is that you James? Very important, eh?... Well, let's hear what it is."