But note that Doyle’s story is not only an original piece of fiction—­as we have just interpreted that expression—­but also one in which we recognize that the seeker after revenge is thoroughly deserving of our sympathy, even though we do not entirely approve of his bringing about the death of even so unworthy a creature as we know his enemy to be.  In Doyle’s story, as in Poe’s, the background is Italy, but Italy of the present day, so we feel that we understand the motives of the characters better because they are of our own time.  There is a definite and grievous wrong committed against the young woman with whom the central character is in love, therefore the wrong is committed indirectly against the lover himself.  We are made to realize the despicable nature, the utter heartlessness, of the young woman’s betrayer, and we actually hate him as soon as the facts are made clear to us.  We realize how great has been the love for her cherished by the man who finally punishes the one who has wronged her, by causing him to be entombed alive in a Roman catacomb which he himself has but recently discovered.

In Poe’s story, Fortunato is chained to the wall of the vault, after which he is literally walled up and buried alive.  In “The New Catacomb,” the redresser of the wrong takes the evil-doer down into the catacomb and leaves him while he finds his own way out by means of a trail of cord, knowing that the other, unable to follow him, is being left in what will be his tomb.

The dramatic intensity of Doyle’s story is just as great as in that written by Poe; the “hero” is as much deserving of our sympathy as the “villain” merits our condemnation; and the treatment of the theme, from first to last, makes Doyle’s an absolutely original story, although there is little doubt that it was suggested, or, at least influenced, either by the one written many years before by the American master of the short-story, or by Balzac’s remarkable tale referred to above.

The discriminating photoplaywright will have no difficulty in making the application of this illustration of how an original story may grow out of an old theme. But be careful not to turn this liberty into an excuse for adhering closely to a borrowed theme.

2.  Plagiarism

In justice to writers in general it is only fair to believe that most cases of plagiarism are quite unintentional.  The fault usually is in the writer’s memory.  Turn your eye inward, and form the habit of tracing the origin of your inspirations—­sometimes it may chagrin you to find how near to unconscious imitation you have been.  You may get the inspiration for a story and write it; it may be accepted and produced; then, after its release, some friend will casually remark that it reminds him of a Vitagraph picture that he saw a year or two ago.  And only after he has called your attention to it do you realize that that Vitagraph story, seen and forgotten, was the source of your “inspiration”—­and perhaps you have committed an unconscious theft.