He did not exactly feel any misgivings as to their merits, but he could not help seeing that with every day it was becoming more and more difficult to put 'Illusion' completely in the shade, and that if he meant to effect this, he could afford to neglect no precautions. New and brilliant ideas, necessitating the entire reconstruction of the plots, were constantly occurring to him, and he set impulsively to work, shifting and interpolating, polishing and repolishing, until he must have invested his work with a dazzling glitter--and yet he could not bring himself to part with it. He was engaged in this manner one Wednesday afternoon in his rooms, when he heard a slow heavy step coming up the stairs, followed by a sharp rap at the door of his bedroom, which adjoined his sitting-room. He shouted to the stranger to come in, and an old gentleman entered presently by the door connecting the two rooms, in whom he recognised Mr. Lightowler's irascible neighbour. He stood there for a few moments without a word, evidently overcome by anger, which Mark supposed was due to annoyance at having first blundered into the bedroom. 'It's old Humpage,' he thought. 'What can he want with _me_?' The other found words at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'I see I am in the presence of the right person,' he began. 'I have come to ask you a plain question.' Here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, and threw it on the table before Mark--it was a copy of 'Illusion.' 'I am told you are in the best position to give me information on the subject. Will you kindly give me the name--the _real_ name--of the author of this book? I have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it.' And he glared down at Mark, who had a sudden and disagreeable sensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. Could this terrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become of him? Instinct rather than reason kept him from betraying himself by words. 'Th-that's a rather extraordinary question, sir,' he gasped faintly. 'Perhaps it is,' said the other; 'but I've asked it, and I want an answer.' 'If the author of the book,' said Mark, 'had wished his real name to be known, I suppose he would have printed it.' 'Have the goodness not to equivocate with me, sir. It's quite useless, as you will understand when I tell you that I happen to _know_'--(he repeated this with withering scorn)--'I happen to know the name of the real author of this--this precious production. I had it, let me tell you, on very excellent authority.' 'Who told you?' said Mark, and his voice seemed to him to come from down stairs. Had Holroyd made a confidant of this angry old gentleman? 'A gentleman whose relation I think you have the privilege to be, sir. Come, you see _I_ know you, Mr.--Mr. Cyril Ernstone,' he sneered. 'Are you prepared to deny it?'