They say it's the most astounding book published in our generation.

Look! A work of genius." "Rubbish, darling," said I, knowing my Adrian.
"Take the trouble to read the notice," said Barbara, thrusting the paper at me in a superior manner.
I took it from her and read.

She was right.

Somebody calling himself Adrian Boldero had written a novel called "The Diamond Gate," which a usually sane and distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius.
He sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder.

The review impressed me.
"Barbara, my dear," said I, "this is somebody else--not our Adrian." "How many people in the world are called Adrian Boldero ?" "Thousands," said I.
She pished again and tossed her pretty head.
"I'll go and telephone straight away to Adrian and find out all about it." She departed through the library door into the recesses of the house where the telephone has its being.