"Perhaps she also wrote the book," interrupted Harrington, with an amused twinkle in his eyes—"I suppose such a solution of the mystery has not occurred to you?"
The publisher smiled. "Under different circumstances it might have done so," he replied, "but we have seen Miss Armitage several times—she is quite a young girl, not at all of the 'literary' type, though she is very careful and accurate in her secretarial work—I mean as regards business letters and attention to detail. But at her age she could not have had the scholarship to produce such a book. The author shows a close familiarity with sixteenth-century literature such as could only be gained by a student of the style of that period,—Miss Armitage has nothing of the 'book-worm' about her—she is quite a simple young person—more like a bright school-girl than anything else—"
"Where does she live?" asked Harrington, abruptly.
The publisher looked up the address and gave it.
"There it is," he said; "if you want to write to the author she will forward any letters to him."
Harrington stared at the pencilled direction for a moment in silence. He remembered it—of course he remembered it!—it was the very address given to the driver of the taxi-cab in which the girl with whom he had travelled to London more than a year ago had gone, as it seemed, out of his sight. Every little incident connected with her came freshly back to his mind—how she had spoken of the books she loved in "old French" and "Elizabethan English"—and how she had said she knew the way to earn her own living. If this was the way—if she was indeed the author of the book which had stirred and wakened the drowsing soul of the age, then she had not ventured in vain!
Aloud he said:
"It seems to be another case of the 'Author of Waverley' and the 'Great Unknown'! I suppose you'll take anything else you can get by the same hand?"
"Rather!" And the publisher nodded emphatically—"We have already secured a second work."
"Through Miss Armitage?"