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.

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
hideous hours of night.

They were all there! The mad king. The subtle-witted courtiers. The
sombre-hearted Prince. The Queen-Mother who had loved a jester better
than her royal mate, and the fruit of their shameful alliance, the
Princess Marigold, a creature woven of sunshine and sin.

Swiftly the action progressed. Shadows of impending death darkened the
house of the King. In the horrible agony of the rack the old jester
confessed. Stripped of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of
blood, he looked so pathetically funny that the Princess Marigold could
not help laughing between her tears.

The Queen stood there all trembling and pale. Without a complaint she
saw her lover die. The executioner's sword smote the old man's head
straight from the trunk. It rolled at the feet of the King, who tossed
it to Marigold. The little Princess kissed it and covered the grinning
horror with her yellow veil.

The last words died away.

There was no applause. Only silence. All were stricken with the dread
that men feel in the house of God or His awful presence in genius.

But the boy lay back in his chair. The cold sweat had gathered on his
brow and his temples throbbed. Nature had mercifully clogged his head
with blood. The rush of it drowned the crying voice of the nerves,
deadening for a while both consciousn