As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but that
appeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort of
judge and master of the ceremonies.
'That's very good of you,' he said; 'but will Edith Butler be
satisfied? That's more to the point.'
'I _am_ Edith Butler,' said Mr Prosser.
Owen stopped. 'You?'
'You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person
besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn't have told you if I could
have helped it. It isn't a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don't
goggle at me like a fish! Haven't you heard of pseudonyms before?'
'Yes, but--'
'Well, never mind. Take it from me that I _am_ Edith Butler. Now
listen to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country.
There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the fact
that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of
thing you would have done, to put no name on the thing.'
'I enclosed a letter, anyhow.'
'There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. There
was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that
was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as "Dear Madam". But one
thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent from some
hotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it.
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