"Surely you do not believe that I gave it to the Press?" said Moore, hoarsely, stung to the heart by the accusing look he read in his old friend's eyes.
"Who else could have done it? I gave you the only copy three months ago."
"I remember, sir. Ah, I can explain it. I left my garret in the afternoon and went for a stroll. When I returned home I found Sir Percival and Farrell there. Since that day I have never thought of it. They have done this, Mr. Dyke."
"I do not believe you," answered Dyke in a voice so scornful and suspicious that Moore felt as though he had received a blow in the face.
Meanwhile Wales's anger had not cooled in the least.
"Egad!" he was saying, "if I but knew the author's name!"
"There is still a chance, Mr. Dyke," whispered Moore. "Deny all knowledge of the matter. Swear you did not write it if necessary."
"Is it impossible to learn the identity of the writer?" asked Brummell seriously.
"Impossible?" repeated Wales. "Of course it is impossible, Beau! You do not think he will acknowledge this slander as his own, do you?"
"It does seem unlikely," admitted the exquisite.