“You asked me to write those sketches,” said the Count pleasantly. “I delayed and you gave the order to some one else. Assuredly I have a certain right to ask who my supplanter is.”
“None whatever, my dear Lloseta. I did not give the order for those sketches--they came.”
“From whom?”
“Ah!”
“You will not tell me?”
“My dear man, I cannot. The smell of printing ink is not good for a man’s morals. Leave me my unsullied honour.”
The Count had lighted his cigarette. He looked keenly at his companion’s deeply-lined face, and the blue smoke floated between them.
“There are not many people who could have written that article,” he said. “For the few English who know Spain like that are known to the natives. And no Spaniard would have dared to write it.”
John Craik laughed, and while he was laughing his eyes were grave and full of keen observation.
“Then you admit that it is true,” he said.