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.