“Of course,” I said bitterly, “you would be on his side. Every one is.”
“But the point is this,” he went on. “If you made him up out of the whole cloth, as it were, and there was no such Person, how can there be such a Person? I am merely asking to get it all clear in my head. It sounds so reasonable when you say it, but there seems to be something left out.”
“I don’t know how he can be, but he is,” I said, hopelessly. “And he is exactly like his picture.”
“Well, that’s not unusual, you know.”
“It is in this case. Because I bought the picture in a shop, and just pretended it was him. (He?) And it was.”
He got up and paced the floor.
“It’s a very strange case,” he said. “Do you mind if I light a cigarette? It helps to clear my brain. What was the name you gave him?”
“Harold Valentine. But he is here under another name, because of my Familey. They think I am a mere child, you see, and so of course he took a nom de plume.”
“A nom de plume? Oh I see! What is it?”
“Grosvenor,” I said. “The same as yours.”