"Almost two years; two _whole_ years, I mean. It's that long since I really wrote my first book. Why?" Her eyebrows lifted superciliously.
"Would you mind telling me the name of that first book?"
"Of course not. It was The Silver Poppy."
The sun still worried her eyes, and she moved her chair uneasily.
"Did you write that book alone--I mean without help or guidance?"
He picked up a book from the table. It was Hartley's copy of The Silver Poppy. A mounting wave of crimson swept over Cordelia's face, leaving it, in turn, almost a dead white.
"One writes nothing quite alone," she added, smiling hastily. "I _did_ have a little help, perhaps, but it was very little!"
"That's better. Could you tell me just how much?"
"Every author, I think, absorbs things that--But am I a prisoner before the bar?" she suddenly flashed back at him angrily. Then she saw his quiet smile, and an answering smile came to her own pale lips. "Or is it a--a joke?" she added.
"No," he said, "I'm afraid it's almost a tragedy."
"Perhaps I can help you to," he answered. "I have, for the first time, just finished reading The Silver Poppy. Miss Vaughan, The Silver Poppy was not written by you!"
She gave a little smothered cry of indignation, and started to her feet. Repellier's stern eyes were looking closely, challengingly, into hers, and she sank back in her chair again. Then she laughed a pitiable little laugh, and a touch of color came into her pale lips.
"Mr. Repellier, I must beg of you not to play these practical jokes on me. They are stupid, and besides, my nerves are not of the strongest. The next thing, and you'll be declaring I have some rhetorical _alter ego_ manufacturing my manuscripts for me!" Cordelia laughed again.
Repellier's eyes were not pleasant to look into as he gazed down at the woman in the chair. She once more moved farther back out of the glare of the lowering sun that still streamed irritatingly in through the window. She opened her lips as though to speak, but remained silent. She was thinking both hard and fast.
"This is far from a joke, Miss Vaughan. I repeat that you did not write The Silver Poppy."
"Then--then why does it bear my name?" It seemed a fair enough question.
"Because you stole it!" he thundered at her.