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! XXVII


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?