Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been more
terrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them.
Ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void in
his heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of her
hand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for
pleasure and as sad men crave death.
Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of
the other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger.
When he came to Ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for a
breath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he
waited, waited, waited for her.
Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Clarke's
conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that
the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action.
Reginald probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacal
influence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. It
was his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger that
threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. For
Reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that
the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any
attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory.
In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with Reginald
himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he would
not fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if Reginald should
approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must
speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He had
fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who had
just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladness
changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. Ernest recounted to
her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in
Reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard.
He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his
tale.
"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked.
"I think so."
"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you
should have taken it with you."
"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer.
To-morrow I shall simply demand it."
"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have
no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he
will not dare to reclaim it."
"And Jack?"
She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those
they love.
"You must warn him," she replied.
"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald."
"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before
you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our
plans."
"And after?"
"After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger."
"No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided I
keep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the
dark."
"Be careful, nevertheless."
"I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go now
I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he
returns."
"I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house."
"You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two."
"Shall I see you to-morrow?"
"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready
at any moment to leave the house."
"And then?"
"Then--"
He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes.
"Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps."
Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured
since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was
her love that had effected this transformation.
"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but
I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word
from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the
telephone."
"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in
this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if
innumerable walls sever his body from hers."
"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less
tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be
happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate
that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn.
Yes, almost. Only almost."
And then a sudden fear overcame her.
"No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feel
so frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid--afraid for
you."
"No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart you
don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of
my artistic life in Reginald's clutch."
"Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friend
who is ready to betray you?"
"You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, it
is no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assured
me that I have nothing to fear from Reginald. I have nothing to give to
him."
She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when
the door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Then
his pace slackened. Her words had unsettled him a little, and when he
reached home he did not at once resume his exploration of Reginald's
papers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour,
he heard Reginald's key in the lock.
Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an
electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night.
Then he went to bed without finding sleep.
Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased to
run. Ernest's brain was all ear. He heard Reginald walking up and down
in the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thus
hours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and
down, down and up, up and down.
One o'clock.
Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There was
something hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its toll
from the boy. He fell asleep.
Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--no
longer a nightmare--tormented him. Again he felt the pointed delicate
fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled
threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self....
A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers
softly withdrawn.
He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room.
Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light.
But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the door
was undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of his
soul.
Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that Reginald
Clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible
trade. The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own
face, white, excited,--the face of a madman.