“Our dear Adrian,” said I, pacifically, “was a man of enormous will-power and perhaps Wittekind hadn’t the strength to stand up against him.”

“Of course he hadn’t,” exclaimed Doria.  “Of course he hadn’t when Adrian was alive:  now Adrian’s dead, he thinks he is going to do just as he chooses.  He isn’t!  Not while I live, he isn’t!”

Jaffery looked at me from beneath bent brows and his eyes were turned to cold blue steel.

“Hilary!” said he, “will you kindly tell Doria what we found on Adrian’s blotting pad—­the last words he ever wrote?”

What he desired me to say was obvious.

“Written three or four times,” said I, “we found the words:  ’The Greater Glory:  A Novel by Adrian Boldero.’”

“What has become of the blotting pad?”

“The sheet seemed to be of no value, so we destroyed it with a lot of other unimportant papers.”

“And I came across further evidence,” said Jaffery, “of his intention to rename the novel.”

Doria’s anger died away.  She looked past us into the void.  “I should like to have had Adrian’s last words,” she whispered.  Then bringing herself back to earth, she begged Jaffery’s pardon very touchingly.  Adrian’s implied intention was a command.  She too approved the change.  “But I’m so jealous,” she said, with a catch in her voice, “of my dear husband’s work.  You must forgive me.  I’m sure you’ve done everything that was right and good, Jaffery.”  She held out the great bundle and smiled.  “I pass the proofs.”

Jaffery took the bundle and laid it again on her lap.  “It’s awfully good of you to say that.  I appreciate it tremendously.  But you can keep this set.  I’ve got another, with the corrections in duplicate.”

She looked at the proofs wistfully, turned over the long strips in a timid, reverent way, and abruptly handed them back.

“I can’t read it.  I daren’t read it.  If Adrian had lived I shouldn’t have seen it before it was published.  He would have given me the finally bound book—­an advance copy.  These things—­you know—­it’s the same to me as if he were living.”

The tears started.  She rose; and we all did the same.

“I must go indoors for a little.  No, no, Barbara dear.  I’d rather be alone.”  She put her arm round my small daughter.  “Perhaps Susan will see I don’t break my neck across the lawn.”

Her voice ended in a queer little sob, and holding on to Susan, who was mighty proud of being selected as an escort, walked slowly towards the house.  Susan afterwards reported that, dismissed at the bedroom door, she had lingered for a moment outside and had heard Auntie Doria crying like anything.

Barbara, who had said absolutely nothing since the miraculous draught of proofs, advanced, a female David, up to Goliath Jaffery.

“Look here, my friend, I’m not accustomed to sit still like a graven image and be mystified in my own house.  Will you have the goodness to explain?”