"They don't," said Wittekind. "They don't get them nowadays. They print from a typed copy." "'The Greater Glory' was printed from my husband's original manuscript." Wittekind smiled and shook his head. "No, my dear Mrs. Boldero. From two typed copies--one in England and one in America." "Mr. Chayne told me that in order to save time he sent you Adrian's original manuscript with his revisions." "I'm sure you must have misunderstood him," said Wittekind. "I read the typescript myself. I've never seen a line of your husband's manuscript." "But 'The Diamond Gate' was printed from Adrian's manuscript." "No, no, no. That, too, I read in type." Doria rose and the colour fled from her cheeks and her great dark eyes grew bigger, and she brought down her little gloved hand on the writing desk by which the publisher, cross-kneed, was sitting. He rose, too. "Mr. Chayne has definitely told me that both Adrian's original manuscripts went to the printers and were destroyed by the printers." "It's impossible," said Wittekind, in much perplexity. "You're making some extraordinary mistake." "I'm not. Mr. Chayne would not tell me a lie." Wittekind drew himself up. "Neither would I, Mrs. Boldero. Allow me." He took up his "house" telephone. "Ask Mr. Forest to come to me at once." He turned to Doria. "Let us get to the bottom of this. Mr. Forest is my literary adviser--everything goes through his hands." They waited in silence until Mr. Forest appeared. "You remember the Boldero manuscripts?" "Of course." "What were they, manuscript or typescript?" "Typescript." "Have you even seen any of Mr. Boldero's original manuscript?" "No." "Do you think any of it has ever come into the office?" "I'm sure it hasn't." "Thank you, Mr. Forest." The reader retired. "You see," said Wittekind. "Then where are the original manuscripts of 'The Diamond Gate' and 'The Greater Glory'?" "I'm very sorry, dear Mrs. Boldero, but I have no means of knowing." "Mr. Chayne said they were sent here, and used by the printers and destroyed by the printers." "I'm sure," said Wittekind, "there's some muddling misunderstanding. Jaffery Chayne, in his own line, is a distinguished man--and a man of unblemished honour. A word or two will clear up everything." "He's in Madagascar." "Then wait till he comes back." Doria insisted--and who in the world can blame her for insisting? "You may think me a silly woman, Mr. Wittekind; but I'm not--not to the extent of an hysterical invention. Mr. Chayne has told me definitely that those two manuscripts came to your office, that the books were printed from them and that they were destroyed by the printers." "And I," said Wittekind, "give you my word of honour--and I have also given you independent testimony--that no manuscript of your husband's has ever entered this office." "Suppose they had come in his handwriting, would they have been destroyed?"