Bernald sat silent, divided between the fierce satisfaction of seeing the Interpreter rush upon his fate, and the despair of knowing that the state of mind he represented was indestructible. Then both emotions were swept away on a wave of pure joy, as he reflected that now, at last, Howland Wade had given him back John Pellerin. The possession was one he did not mean to part with lightly; and the dread of its being torn from him constrained him to extraordinary precautions. “You’ve told Winterman, I suppose? How did he take it?” “Why, unexpectedly, as he does most things. You can never tell which way he’ll jump. I thought he’d take a high tone, or else laugh it off; but he did neither. He seemed awfully cast down. I wished myself well out of the job when I saw how cut up he was.” Bernald thrilled at the words. Pellerin had shared his pang, then--the “old woe of the world” at the perpetuity of human dulness! “But what did he say to the charge of plagiarism--if you made it?” “Oh, I told him straight out what Howland said. I thought it fairer. And his answer to that was the rummest part of all.” “What was it?” Bernald questioned, with a tremor. “He said: ‘That’s queer, for I’ve never read Pellerin.’” Bernald drew a deep breath of ecstasy. “Well--and I suppose you believed him?” “I believed him, because I know him. But the public won’t--the critics won’t. And if it’s a pure coincidence it’s just as bad for him as if it were a straight steal--isn’t it?” Bernald sighed his acquiescence.