Her friends surged toward her and Della grabbed her hands and pulled her out of the chair. “You can do this, Viola,” she said. “We believe in you.”

Could she do this? Once she revealed her identity as Mr. Beam there’d be no going back.

West had told her to reveal herself. Her best friends were united in their belief that it was the right thing to do.

The breath she drew was shaky, and a little tentative, but it filled her lungs with fresh life, fresh resolve.

“Do you know what?” She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. “I believe you’re right. At least about Mr. Beam—I’m going to march over to that publishing house and claim my prize!”

“That’s my girl!”

“You’ll show them!”

The encouragement of her friends rang in her ears as she left the club.

When she reached the publishing house of Atwater and Herrick she very nearly lost her nerve. The building looked dark inside. No one was there.

This had been a bad idea, anyway. She’d knock upon the door but if no one answered she’d leave immediately.

She lifted her hand to the door knocker and the door opened.

“Good evening, miss. I was just leaving but I’d be happy to answer your inquiry,” said Mr. Atwater, the white-haired gentleman she’d spoken with at the musicale. “Wait . . .” He peered at her through round spectacles. “Miss Beaton? I’m so glad you decided to come. Do come in, my dear. Mr. Herrick,” he called. “I say, Mr. Herrick, Miss Beaton has come!”

Another white-haired and bespectacled gentleman bustled out from some inner office. “Miss Beaton. What an honor.” He pumped her hand up and down. “Do sit down, please.” He swept a pile of papers from a chair and gestured for her to take a seat.

Viola’s heart was beating so violently she thought they must be able to hear it.

Mr. Atwater beamed at her. “Now, will you reveal the mystery of Mr. Vincent Beam?”

“Are you going to tell us that Mr. Beam is actually your father?” asked Mr. Herrick. “Dipping his toes back into the waters of publishing, as it were. It’s been long enough since his scandal. We’d be delighted to publish his new works.”

“Most delighted,” Mr. Atwater agreed. “But, Mr. Herrick, I contend that Mr. Vincent Beam is actually . . . Miss Viola Beaton. Am I correct?”

Viola nodded. “You are correct, sir.” There. She’d done it. “I composed the symphony and submitted it under a pseudonym so that it would be judged fairly, without the bias attached to works by females.”

Mr. Herrick adjusted his spectacles. “How very daring of you.”

“I know you probably won’t wish to publish it now. I only wanted to tell you to solve the mystery. I never collected my prize and I don’t expect, or even desire, the work to be published.”