For over an hour Ernest paced up and down his room, wildly excited by
Ethel's revelations. It required an immense amount of self-control for
him to pen the following lines to Jack: "I need you. Come."
After he had entrusted the letter to the hall-boy, a reaction set in and
he was able to consider the matter, if not with equanimity, at least
with a degree of calmness. The strangest thing to him was that he could
not bring himself to hate Reginald, of whose evil influence upon his
life he was now firmly convinced. Here was another shattered idol; but
one--like the fragment of a great god-face in the desert--intensely
fascinating, even in its ruin. Then yielding to a natural impulse,
Ernest looked over his photographs and at once laid hold upon the
austere image of his master and friend. No--it was preposterous; there
was no evil in this man. There was no trace of malice in this face, the
face of a prophet or an inspired madman, a poet. And yet, as he
scrutinised the picture closely a curious transformation seemed to take
place in the features; a sly little line appeared insinuatingly about
Reginald's well-formed mouth, and the serene calm of his Jupiter-head
seemed to turn into the sneak smile of a thief. Nevertheless, Ernest was
not afraid. His anxieties had at last assumed definite shape; it was
possible now to be on his guard. It is only invisible, incomprehensible
fear, crouching upon us from the night, that drives sensitive natures to
the verge of madness and transforms stern warriors into cowards.
Ernest realised the necessity of postponing the proposed investigation
of Reginald's papers until the morning, as it was now near eleven, and
he expected to hear at any moment the sound of his feet at the door.
Before retiring he took a number of precautions. Carefully he locked the
door to his bedroom and placed a chair in front of it. To make doubly
sure, he fastened the handle to an exquisite Chinese vase, a gift of
Reginald's, that at the least attempt to force an entrance from without
would come down with a crash.
Then, although sleep seemed out of the question, he went to bed. He had
hardly touched the pillow when a leaden weight seemed to fall upon his
eyes. The day's commotion had been too much for his delicate frame. By
force of habit he pulled the cover over his ear and fell asleep.
All night he slept heavily, and the morning was far advanced when a
knock at the door that, at first, seemed to come across an immeasurable
distance, brought him back to himself. It was Reginald's manservant
announcing that breakfast was waiting.
Ernest got up and rubbed his eyes. The barricade at the door at once
brought back to his mind with startling clearness the events of the
previous evening.
Everything was as he had left it. Evidently no one had attempted to
enter the room while he slept. He could not help smiling at the
arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by
similar means security from burglars and bogeys. And in the broad
daylight Ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and
absurd. Still, he had abundant evidence of Reginald's strange influence,
and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. Her words, that
thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. If such was
the case, he would find evidence of Reginald's intellectual burglaries,
and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been
snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand.
But under no circumstances could he face Reginald in his present state
of mind. He was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the
other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so
terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. So he dressed particularly
slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. But fate
thwarted this hope. Reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long
over his coffee. He was just taking his last sip when Ernest entered the
room. His behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. Benevolence
fairly beamed from his face. But to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new
and sinister expression.
"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner.
"Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are
equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the
inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest
had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it
the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal.
He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His
feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he
sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze.
At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this
splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand
methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled
more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength
and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether
this strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Ethel's suspicions were
justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever
realise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those
veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame!