the last pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few minutes ago!

Reginald smiled. “Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?” he remarked.

“Your manuscripts? Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor! You have written no word that is your own. You are an embezzler of the mind, strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!”

And at once the mask fell from Reginald’s face.

“Why stolen?” he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. “I absorb. I appropriate. That is the most any artist can say for himself. God creates; man moulds. He gives us the colours; we mix them.”

“That is not