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290 “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.