"Only the loose money from the pocketbook. Not all of that. I am earning money now."
She leaned across the table.
"What about the twenty thousand pounds?"
"I haven't touched it," he assured her, "not a penny."
"On your honour?"
He rose silently and went to his desk, unlocked one of the drawers, and drew from a hidden place a thin strip of paper. He smoothed it out on the table before her.
"There's the deposit note," he said,—"Twenty thousand pounds to the joint or separate credit of Beatrice Wenderley and Douglas Romilly, on demand. The money's there still. I haven't touched it."
She gripped the paper in her fingers. The sight of the figures seemed to fascinate her. Then she looked around.
"How can you afford to live in a place like this, then?" she demanded suspiciously. "Where does your money come from?"
"The play," he told her.
"What, all this?" she exclaimed.
"It is a great success. The theatre is packed every night. My royalties come every week to far more than I could spend."
She looked once more around her, gripped the deposit note in her fingers, and leaned back in her chair. She laughed curiously. Her eyes had travelled back to Philip's anxious face.
"Wonderful!" she murmured. "You paid the price, but you've won. You've had something for it. I paid the price, and up till now—"
