Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ
was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the
troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's
style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble
column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his
winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque
angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his
manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids.

The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring
coat round him.

"I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said.

The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths
and cadences.

"I shall be punctual."

The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke.

"I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in
you."

The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere
lips of this arbiter of literary elegance.

An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features.

"I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say.

"I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a
watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye."

He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned
away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd
jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes
followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke,
toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the
warm enthusiasm of his generous youth.

II

With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight,
Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before
him, bathed in light and pulsating with life.

His world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the Giant
City's motley activities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic
power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the
crowd as a Circassian blade cleaves water.

After walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's
shop. Arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare
of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes--green, pomegranate and
water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was
transformed in the prism of his mind i