'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'It shows how oddly these things are brought about. I was walking down Palace Gardens one afternoon....' and he told the history of the conception of 'Illusion' in his best manner, until Caffyn raged internally. 'You brazen humbug!' he thought; 'to sit there and tell that string of lies to _me_!' When it was finished he remarked, 'Well, that's very interesting; and I have your permission to tell that again, eh?' 'Certainly, my dear fellow,' said Mark, with a wave of his hand. His cigar was a really excellent one, and he thought he would try another presently. ('We must try him again,' thought Caffyn; 'he's deeper than I gave him credit for being.') 'I'll tell you an odd criticism I heard the other day. I was talking to little Mrs. Bismuth--you know Mrs. Bismuth by name? Some fellow has just taken the "Charivari" for her. Well, she goes in for letters a little as well as the drama, reads no end of light literature since she gave up tights for drawing-room comedy, and she would have it that she seemed to recognise two distinct styles in the book, as if two pens had been at work on it.' ('Now I may find out if that really was the case after all,' he was thinking.) 'I thought you'd be amused with that,' he added, after a pause. Mark really did seem amused; he laughed a little. 'Mrs. Bismuth is a charming actress,' he said, 'but she'd better read either a little more or a little less light literature before she goes in for tracing differences in style. You can tell her, with my compliments, that a good many pens were at work on it, but only one brain. Where is it your matches live?' 'I can't draw him,' thought Caffyn. 'What an actor the fellow is! And yet, if it was all aboveboard, he wouldn't have said that! and I've got Holroyd's handwriting, which is pretty strong evidence against him. But I want more, and I'll have it.' He strolled up to the mantelpiece to light a cigarette, for which purpose he removed the shade from one of the candles, throwing a stronger light on his friend's face, and then, pausing with the cigarette still unlighted between his fingers, he asked suddenly: 'By the way, Fladgate said some other fellow wrote the book for you the other day!' That shot at least told; every vestige of colour left Mark's face, he half rose from his chair, and then sat down again as he retorted sharply: 'Fladgate said that! What the devil are you talking about...? What fellow?' 'Why, you were there when he said it. Some amanuensis you gave the manuscript to.' The colour came back in rather an increased quantity to Mark's cheeks. What a nervous fool he was! 'Oh, ah--_that_ fellow!' he said; 'I remember now. Yes, I was absurdly anxious to remain unknown, you see, in those days, and--and I rather wanted to put something in the way of a poor fellow who got his living by copying manuscripts; and so, you see----' 'I see,' said Caffyn. 'What was his name?'