Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest hastily rose from
his seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed
possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too
great to permit of delay.
Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where,
scarcely a year ago, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing had
changed there since then; only in Ernest's mind the room had assumed an
aspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head.
But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous.
The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from their
pedestals as his fingers were running through Reginald's papers. He
brushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on the
writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly
re-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious family
resemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon--and Reginald,
forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputable
something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to
some gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused with
kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The image
of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before
his eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but
he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of
those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse,
are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neither
justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth.
Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they were
stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat.
Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in
such a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if the
latter included burglary.
After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force
open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally
discovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of
giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton
key, when at last the lock gave way.
The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Ernest paused for a
moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. And
there--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend:
"_Leontina_, A Novel."
It was true, then--all, his dream, Reginald's confession. And the house
that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire!
Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. He attempted to
read. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes--his hands trembled.
At last he succeeded. The words that had first rolled over like drunken
soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. He was
delighted, then stunned. This was indeed authentic literature, there
could be no doubt about it. And it was his. He was still a poet, a great
poet. He drew a deep breath. Sudden joy trembled in his heart. This
story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his
brain.
There were some slight changes--slight deviations from the original
plan. A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for
all that it remained his very own. It did not belong to that thief. The
blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to
Reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious.
He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the
hallway. Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the
drawer and left the room on tiptoe.
It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him.
The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make out what it said. He
listened intently and--was it possible? Jack? Surely he could not yet
have come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dim
presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he
linger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him?
Cautiously he drew nearer. This time he caught Jack's words:
"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel that
it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here."
"That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dear
boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he will
go to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained."
"This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you
read your play."
"That idea has since then developed into a monomania."
"I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. But
I always feared that he would come to such an end. Of late his letters
have been strangely unbalanced."
"You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer the
same."
"No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved."
Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony.
Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon the
cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling
he stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep.
Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus he
lay--uncomforted and alone.