And, folding the paper, with the passage which concerned him uppermost, he handed it to the secretary.
Fremin glanced at the article.
“Yes, I have seen this paragraph,” he said; “but I am entirely ignorant to whom it alludes. I am not even certain that it is not a fabrication, invented out of whole cloth.”
“Ah!” said Zilah. “The author of the article would know, I suppose?”
“It is highly probable,” replied Fremin, with a smile.
“Will you tell me, then, the name of the person who wrote this?”
“Isn’t the article signed?”
“It is signed Puck. That is not a name.”
“A pseudonym is a name in literature,” said Fremin. “I am of the opinion, however, that one has always the right to demand to see a face which is covered by a mask. But the person who makes this demand should be personally interested. Does this story, to which you have called my attention, concern you, Monsieur?”
“Suppose, Monsieur,” answered Zilah, a little disconcerted, for he perceived that he had to do with a courteous, well-bred man, “suppose that the man who is mentioned, or rather insulted, here, were my best friend. I wish to demand an explanation of the person who wrote this article, and to know, also, if it was really a journalist who composed those lines.”