meaning was never obscure for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten thing poor old George would think of. And then I wanted to know too much, and he tried to put me off with lies that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two.”
“Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony. “Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being agreeable to me.”
“But, alas, for poor old George, no memoirs! Now I’ve got a question for you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew I hadn’t—you couldn’t know any such thing?”
“Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working knowledge of psychology.”
“You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was such that—”
But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously.
“Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You might have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie down to be blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared stiff. You’d have fought.”
“I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It makes me feel as though I had a double somewhere.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked at last.
“What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?”