strength and rekindled in his hand the flaming sword of song.

And at nightfall he would bring the day's harvest to Clarke, as a
worshipper scattering precious stones, incense and tapestries at the
feet of a god.

Surely he would be very happy. And as the heart, at times, leads the
feet to the goal of its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like
dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, he suddenly found himself
stepping from the elevator-car to Reginald Clarke's apartment.

Already was he raising his hand to strike the electric bell when a sound
from within made him pause half-way.

"No, there's no help!" he heard Clarke say. His voice had a hard,
metallic clangour.

A boyish voice answered plaintively. What the words were Ernest could
not distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the
tears to his eyes. He instinctively knew that this was the finale of
some tragedy.

He withdrew hastily, so as not to be a witness of an interview that was
not meant for his ears.

Reginald Clarke probably had good reason for parting with his young
friend, whom Ernest surmised to be Abel Felton, a talented boy, whom the
master had taken under his wings.

In the apartment a momentary silence had ensued.