“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.”

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.