"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. "Mr. Repellier!" She drew herself up, flaming, flashing at him unspeakable indignation. "You--you are a coward!" she cried, as a gush of tears came to her eyes. "Then I am mistaken?" he asked, icily, but more quietly. "It is all too ridiculous," she said brokenly, over her handkerchief. "You are more than mistaken. But I should like to know whether you mean this for a joke, or an insult!" "And on your word of honor as a woman, The Silver Poppy is your rightful property?" "It is my rightful property." "And you wrote it out of your own head, with your own hand?" "I wrote every word of it," was the low response. "Would you mind telling me, please, just where and at what time you did so?" he asked. Cordelia rose to her feet impatiently. "I did not come here, Mr. Repellier, to go into a criminal's witness-box," she said tremulously, "and I cannot stay to answer questions that are neither courteous nor rational. I'm afraid that I really must be going." She swept to the door. "One moment, I beg of you, Miss Vaughan," cried Repellier after her. She turned and faced him. "You are misunderstanding me entirely. I haven't the slightest wish to hurt or offend you in any way. I only want to clear up this mystery, so that my knowledge of the facts may be a protection to you yourself, should the occasion arise." "A protection to _me_?" "Yes, to you," he repeated. He motioned her toward the chair again. She hesitated. "Couldn't you write this to me? Couldn't you put it down on paper, and then I could answer it in the same way. I hate mysteries, and I'm tired this afternoon." She looked at him almost appealingly. "It will have to be talked over by us, face to face," he replied. And there was nothing for her to do but to go back to her chair once more. "Will you let me explain away the mystery as clearly and frankly as I can?" he asked her. "Certainly!" Repellier, seating himself opposite her and still looking closely into her face, could see the pupils of the now pale-green eyes contract oddly.