A seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood
in one corner of the room in the full glare of the light, waiting for
the monarch to come. Above were arranged with artistic _raffinement_
weird oriental draperies, resembling a crimson canopy in the total
effect. Chattering visitors were standing in groups, or had seated
themselves on the divans and curiously-fashioned chairs that were
scattered in seeming disorder throughout the salon. There were critics
and writers and men of the world. Everybody who was anybody and a little
bigger than somebody else was holding court in his own small circle of
enthusiastic admirers. The Bohemian element was subdued, but not
entirely lacking. The magic of Reginald Clarke's name made stately dames
blind to the presence of some individuals whom they would have passed on
the street without recognition. Ernest surveyed this gorgeous assembly with the absent look of a
sleep-walker. Not that his sensuous soul was unsusceptible to the
atmosphere of culture and corruption that permeated the whole, nor to
the dazzling colour effects that tantalised while they delighted the
eye. But to-night they shrivelled into insignificance before the
splendour of his inner vision. A radiant dreamland palace, his play, had
risen from the night of inchoate thought. It was wonderful, it was real,
and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction. And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were
yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of
paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful
mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his
reverie. "Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away
from here." "That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered. "When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my
presence." "Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?" "Clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. I
suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked
surprised--not even pleasantly. I am really head-over-heels at work. But you know how it is. Sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears
daring me to do a thing which I know is foolish. But what of it? My legs
are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me." "It was certainly good of you to come. In fact, you make me very glad. I
feel that I need you to-night--I don't know why. The feeling came
suddenly--suddenly as you. I only know I need you. How long can you
stay?" "I must leave you to-morrow morning. I have to hustle somewhat. You know
my examinations are taking place in a day or two and I've got to cram up
a lot of things." "Still," remarked Ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of
time. Clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece." "What is it?" "I don't know. I only know it's the real thing. It's worth all the
wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated
doses at five thousand a year." "Come now," Jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way? Don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical
examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the
absolute zero." "Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last
time I didn't flunk." "No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the
math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler,
whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that,
in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in
physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?" "And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,--I cannot." Here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. There was a stir. The little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before
their minions had wholly deserted them. The king was moving to his throne! Assuredly Reginald Clarke had the bearing of a king. Leisurely he took
his seat under the canopy. A hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his
manuscript. XI


The music of Reginald Clarke's intonation captivated every ear. Voluptuously, in measured cadence, it rose and fell; now full and strong
like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear like the tinkling of
bells. His voice detracted by its very tunefulness from what he said. The powerful spell charmed even Ernest's accustomed ear. The first page
gracefully glided from Reginald's hand to the carpet before the boy
dimly realised that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell
from Reginald's lips. When the second page slipped with seeming
carelessness from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the
boy's frame. It was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. There could
be no doubt of it. This was more than mere coincidence. It was
plagiarism. He wanted to cry out. But the room swam before his eyes. Surely he must be dreaming. It was a dream. The faces of the audience,
the lights, Reginald, Jack--all phantasmagoria of a dream. Perhaps he had been ill for a long time. Perhaps Clarke was reading the
play for him. He did not remember having written it. But he probably had
fallen sick after its completion. What strange pranks our memories will
play us! But no! He was not dreaming, and he had not been ill. He could endure the horrible uncertainty no longer. His overstrung
nerves must find relaxation in some way or break with a twang. He turned
to his friend who was listening with rapt attention. "Jack, Jack!" he whispered. "What is it?" "That is my play!" "You mean that you inspired it?" "No, I have written it, or rather, was going to write it." "Wake up, Ernest! You are mad!" "No, in all seriousness. It is mine. I told you--don't you
remember--when we returned from Coney Island--that I was writing a
play." "Ah, but not this play." "Yes, this play. I conceived it, I practically wrote it." "The more's the pity that Clarke had preconceived it." "But it is mine!" "Did you tell him a word about it?" "No, to be sure." "Did you leave the manuscript in your room?" "I had, in fact, not written a line of it. No, I had not begun the
actual writing." "Why should a man of Clarke's reputation plagiarise your plays, written
or unwritten?" "I can see no reason. But--"

"Tut, tut." For already this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab
from a lady before them. Ernest held fast to the edge of a chair. He must cling to some reality,
or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions. Or was Jack right? Was his mind giving way? No! No! No! There must be a monstrous secret
somewhere, but what matter? Did anything matter? He had called on his
mate like a ship lost in the fog. For the first time he had not
responded. He had not understood. The bitterness of tears rose to the
boy's eyes.