Ernest recounted to
her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in
Reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard.
He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his
tale.
"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked.
"I think so."
"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you
should have taken it with you."
"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer.
To-morrow I shall simply demand it."
"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have
no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he
will not dare to reclaim it."
"And Jack?"
She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those
they love.
"You must warn him," she replied.
"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald."
"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before
you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our
plans.
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