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.

Above it all, melodiously, ebbed and flowed the rich accents of Reginald
Clarke.

Ernest listened to the words of his own play coming from the older man's
mouth. The horrible fascination of the scene held him entranced. He saw
the creations of his mind pass in review before him, as a man might look
upon the face of his double grinning at him from behind a door in the