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“Certainly not,” said Sir Charles firmly.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’d laugh.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t be able to help laughing.”
“Oh, please tell me. Please, please, please.”
“What a persistent creature you are, Egg. Why do you want to know?”
“Because you won’t tell me.”
“You adorable child,” said Sir Charles a little unsteadily.
“I’m not a child.”
“Aren’t you? I wonder.”
“Tell me,” whispered Egg softly.
A humorous and rueful smile twisted Sir Charles’s mouth.
“Very well, here goes. My father’s name was Mugg.”
“Not really?”
“Really and truly.”
“H’m,” said Egg. “That is a bit catastrophic. To go through life as Mugg—”
“Wouldn’t have taken me far in my career, I agree. I remember,” went on Sir Charles dreamily, “I played with the idea (I was young then) of calling myself Ludovic Castiglione—but I eventually compromised on British alliteration as Charles Cartwright.”
“Are you really Charles?”
“Yes, my godfathers and godmothers saw to that.” He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you say Charles—and drop the Sir?”
“I might.”
“You did yesterday. When—when—you thought I was dead.”
“Oh, then.” Egg tried to make her voice nonchalant.
Sir Charles said abruptly: “Egg, somehow or other this murder business doesn’t seem real anymore. Today especially, it seems fantastic. I meant to clear the thing up before—before anything else. I’ve been superstitious about it. I’ve associated success in solving problems with—with another kind of success. Oh, damn, why do I beat about the bush? I’ve made love on the stage so often that I’m diffident about it in real life…Is it me or is it young Manders, Egg? I must know. Yesterday I thought it was me….”
“You thought right….”
“You incredible angel,” cried Sir Charles.
“Charles, Charles, you can’t kiss me in a churchyard….”
“I shall kiss you anywhere I please….”
