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?"
"I can see no reason. But--"
"Tut, tut.
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