“You mean——”
“I mean—there are my notes one after another, but expressed in a way I never could hope for, exquisitely expressed. But it’s mine all the same. A cruel, enchanting robbery! You don’t believe me. How could you? But I can prove it. See here.”
With passionate haste he pulled a roll of paper from his pocket, and pushed the typed sheets before her. The first story in “The Ninefold Flower,” was called “The Lady of Beauty.” The notes began, “The Queen of Beauty,” and went on seriatim with the scaffolding of the story.
“The way it’s done here, in this book, is the very way I used to see it in my dreams, but it was utterly beyond me. For God’s sake, tell me what you think.”
She laid it down.
“Of course it’s yours. No doubt of that. But his too. You blocked out the marble. He made the statue. The very judgment of Solomon could not decide between you.”
“That’s true,” he said hopelessly. “But the mystery of it. The appalling hopeless mystery. No eye but mine has ever seen that paper till now.”
Silence. A grey moth flew in from the garden and circled about the lamp. The little flutter of its wings was the only sound. Then in a shaken voice very unlike its usual sedate sweetness, she asked.
“Mr. Welland, do you ever dream?”
“Awake? Constantly.”