Craik nodded, after the manner of one who had formed his own opinion and intended to abide by it. He was a gentle-mannered man in the ordinary intercourse of life, but on the battlefield of letters he was a veritable Cœur-de-Lion. He quailed before no man.
“You know,” said the Count, “there are only two persons who could have written this--and they are women. If it is the one, I fear nothing; if the other, I fear everything.”
“Then,” said John Craik, shuffling in his chair, “fear nothing.”
De Lloseta looked at him sharply.
“I could force you to tell a lie by mentioning the name of the woman who wrote this,” he said.
“Then don’t!” said John Craik. “I lie beautifully!”
“No, I will not. But I will ask you to do something for me instead: let me read the proofs of these as they are printed.”
For exactly two seconds John Craik pondered.
“I shall be happy to do that,” he said. “I will let you know when the proof is ready. You must come here and read it in this room.”
Cipriani de Lloseta rose from his seat.