t the
sneers and the reproaches short, and give me the finishing stroke; do
you suppose I don't _feel_ what I am?'

'Reproaches are ungenerous, of course,' retorted Holroyd; 'I am coming
to the "finishing stroke," as you call it, in my own time; but first,
though you may consider it bad taste on my part, I want to know a
little more about all this. If it's painful to you, I'm sorry--but you
scarcely have the right to be sensitive.'

'Oh, I have no rights!' said Mark, bitterly.

'I'll try not to abuse mine,' said Vincent, more calmly, 'but I can't
understand why you did this--you could write books for yourself, what
made you covet mine?'

'I'll tell you all there is to tell,' said Mark: 'I didn't covet your
book--it was like this; my own novels had both been rejected. I knew I
had no chance, as things were, of ever getting a publisher to look at
them. I felt I only wanted a fair start. Then Fladgate got it into his
head that I was the author of that manuscript of yours. I _did_ tell
him how it really was, but he wouldn't believe me, and then--upon my
soul, Holroyd, I thought you were dead!'

'And had no rights!' concluded the other drily; 'I see--go on.'

'I was mad, I suppose,' continued Mark; 'I let him think he was
right. And then I met Mabel ... by that time everybody knew me as the
author of "Illusion." I--I could not tell her I was not.... Then we
were engaged, and, four days before the wedding, you came back--you
know all the rest.'

'Yes, I know the rest,' cried Vincent, passionately; 'you came to meet
me--how overcome you were! I thought it was joy, and thanked Heaven,
like the fool I was, that I had anyone in the world to care so much
about me! And you let me tell you about--about _her_; and you and
Caffyn between you kept me in the dark till you could get me safely
out of the way. It was a clever scheme--you managed it admirably. You
need not have stolen from anyone with such powers of constructing a
plot of your own! There is just one thing, though, I should like to
have explained. I wrote Mabel a letter--I know now that she never
received it--why?'

'How can I tell?' said Mark. 'Good God! Holroyd, you don't suspect me
of _that_!'

'Are you so far above suspicion?' asked Vincent; 'it would only be a
very few more pages!'

'Well, I deserve it,' said Mark, 'but whether you believe me or not, I
never saw a letter of yours until the other day. I never imagined you
were alive even till I read your le