A last effort of frantic unconvinced self-persuasion that he was mistaken, the next page would show him so—well then, the next chapter; he had his own book so much on his mind, that it infected absurdly everything he read; this other, this Pat O'Neill, was labouring towards an entirely different issue; funny that in places it should appear so like.
Half-way through the manuscript, no more possibility of doubt. It was then that the white staring pages found their scattered resting-place on the carpet.
His idea.
In his official capacity, he would have to compose a report to send up to Leslie Campbell, who would probably publish the book. An astoundingly good piece of work, he would have to report well on it.
His idea.
Not for an instant could he accuse the unknown author of deliberate plagiarism. No; these brainwaves occurred at times. He had heard several cases of two books or two plays each founded on the same theme, evolved at the same period by their totally unconscious creators. In this case, the other man would get in first, that was all. And it mattered so intensely to Gareth.
Drearily he stared at the black china cat with yellow eyes, who occupied the centre of the mantelpiece, just where the faded red velvet with its brownish fringe was looped up with a nail.
"What am I to do?"
The cat leered evilly: "You might give the book a bad report; then the Heart-breaker would tie it up in a parcel, and, whistling, carry it to the post."
"Another firm will publish it if Campbell doesn't. There's a good two months' work in mine still. 'The Reverse of the Medal' is bound to get in first."