“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?”