"I've said too much," he cried. "You've got to know all. You've got to. Look here!" He haled her across the room to his desk and pointed to a thick pile of manuscript which lay on it. "Look at that. Whose writing is it?"
She peered through her lorgnette. "It's father's," she said.
"Well," he shouted, "that's my new novel. He's just finished writing it."
"What do you mean, he's just finished writing it?" she cried.
"I mean what I say. He's just finished writing it. He wrote 'Trixie,' do you hear? Being an Archdeacon, it wouldn't have done for him to publish it under his own name. So I lent him mine. Like Bacon did for Shakespeare, do you see? And now he's written this other one, and I'm copying it out to send to the publishers! Do you understand me?"
