“How is the play coming on?”
“Pretty well, I think. We’re up to the climax of the second act. Jarvis is working on it to-day.”
“Still no suspicion of you?”
“Not a grain. I think he’s falling in love with the author of ‘Francesca,’ though.”
“How?”
“Through their letters.”
“You certainly have a talent for comedy,” he laughed, and added, gravely, “I thought Jocelyn had always been in love with the author of ‘Francesca’?"
“No-o.”
“I have always known that the author of ‘Francesca’ cared about Jarvis.”
“You must have dreamed that, Richard. Poor old Jarvis! Sometimes I think I will confess. Maybe I have no right to make game of him this way.”
“Doesn’t he suspect your style in your letters? I would know a letter from you, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Oh, I don’t write like myself. I write like an author. I found out what he thought she looked like, and I write tall, pale, sensitive-mouthed kind of letters, with a hint of sadness.”
“You imp!” he laughed.
