Peter glanced at the grey-and-gold binding--and dissembled the
emotion that suddenly swelled big in his heart.

He screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and gave an intent look.

"I can't make out the title," he temporised, shaking his head,
and letting his eyeglass drop.

On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult
little smile that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile
of appreciation.

"It has a highly appropriate title," she said. "It is called
'A Man of Words,' by an author I've never happened to hear of
before, named Felix Wildmay."

"Oh, yes. How very odd," said Peter. "By a curious chance, I
know it very well. But I 'm surprised to discover that you do.
How on earth did it fall into your hands?"

"Why on earth shouldn't it?" wondered she. "Novels are
intended to fall into people's hands, are they not?"

"I believe so," he assented. "But intentions, in this vale of
tears, are not always realised, are they? Anyhow, 'A Man of
Words' is not like other novels. It's peculiar."

"Peculiar--?" she repeated.

"Of a peculiar, of an unparalleled obscurity," he explained.