And behold--the last
pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few
minutes ago! Reginald smiled. "Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?" he
remarked. "Your manuscripts? Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor! You
have written no word that is your own. You are an embezzler of the mind,
strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!" And at once the mask fell from Reginald's face. "Why stolen?" he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. "I
absorb. I appropriate. That is the most any artist can say for himself. God creates; man moulds. He gives us the colours; we mix them." "That is not the question. I charge you with having wilfully and
criminally interfered in my life; I charge you with having robbed me of
what was mine; I charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a
hypocrite and a parasite!" "Foolish boy," Reginald rejoined austerely. "It is through me that the
best in you shall survive, even as the obscure Elizabethans live in him
of Avon. Shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men--a greatness
that otherwise would have perished--and gave it a setting, a life." "A thief may plead the same. I understand you better. It is your
inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power." "You err. Self-love has never entered into my actions. I am careless of
personal fame. Look at me, boy! As I stand before you I am Homer, I am
Shakespeare ... I am every cosmic manifestation in art. Men have doubted
in each incarnation my individual existence. Historians have more to
tell of the meanest Athenian scribbler or Elizabethan poetaster than of
me. The radiance of my work obscured my very self. I care not. I have a
mission. I am a servant of the Lord. I am the vessel that bears the
Host!" He stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power. A
tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips. He was like a
gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms
that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through
infinities of space.... Under ordinary circumstances Ernest or any other man would have quailed
before him. But the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his
stature. He felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was
intrusted the cause of Abel and of Walkham, of Ethel and of Jack. His
was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel
fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon. "By what right," he cried, "do you assume that you are the literary
Messiah? Who appointed you? What divine power has made you the steward
of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?" "I am a light-bearer. I tread the high hills of mankind.... I point the
way to the future. I light up the abysses of the past. Were not my
stature gigantic, how could I hold the torch in all men's sight? The
very souls that I tread underfoot realise, as their dying gaze follows
me, the possibilities with which the future is big.... Eternally secure,
I carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine.... I am
Homer ... Goethe ... Shakespeare.... I am an embodiment of the same
force of which Alexander, Cæsar, Confucius and the Christos were also
embodiments.... None so strong as to resist me." A sudden madness overcame Ernest at this boast. He must strike now or
never. He must rid humanity of this dangerous maniac--this demon of
strength. With a power ten times intensified, he raised a heavy chair so
as to hurl it at Reginald's head and crush it. Reginald stood there calmly, a smile upon his lips.... Primal cruelties
rose from the depth of his nature.... Still he smiled, turning his
luminous gaze upon the boy ... and, behold ... Ernest's hand began to
shake ... the chair fell from his grasp.... He tried to call for help,
but no sound issued from his lips.... Utterly paralysed he
confronted ... the Force....

Minutes--eternities passed. And still those eyes were fixed upon him. But this was no longer Reginald! It was all brain ... only brain ... a tremendous brain-machine ...
infinitely complex ... infinitely strong. Not more than a mile away
Ethel endeavoured to call to him through the night. The telephone rang,
once, twice, thrice, insistingly. But Ernest heard it not. Something
dragged him ... dragged the nerves from his body dragged, dragged,
dragged.... It was an irresistible suction ... pitiless ... passionless
... immense. Sparks, blue, crimson and violet, seemed to play around the living
battery. It reached the finest fibres of his mind.... Slowly ... every
trace of mentality disappeared.... First the will ... then feeling ...
judgment ... memory ... fear even.... All that was stored in his
brain-cells came forth to be absorbed by that mighty engine.... The Princess With the Yellow Veil appeared ... flitted across the room
and melted away. She was followed by childhood memories ... girls'
heads, boys' faces.... He saw his dead mother waving her arms to him....
An expression of death-agony distorted the placid features.... Then,
throwing a kiss to him, she, too, disappeared. Picture on picture
followed.... Words of love that he had spoken ... sins, virtues,
magnanimities, meannesses, terrors ... mathematical formulas even, and
snatches of songs. Leontina came and was swallowed up.... No, it was
Ethel who was trying to speak to him ... trying to warn.... She waved
her hands in frantic despair.... She was gone.... A pale face ... dark,
dishevelled hair.... Jack.... How he had changed! He was in the circle
of the vampire's transforming might. "Jack," he cried. Surely Jack had
something to explain ... something to tell him ... some word that if
spoken would bring rest to his soul. He saw the words rise to the boy's
lips, but before he had time to utter them his image also had vanished. And Reginald ... Reginald, too, was gone.... There was only the mighty
brain ... panting ... whirling.... Then there was nothing.... The
annihilation of Ernest Fielding was complete. Vacantly he stared at the walls, at the room and at his master. The
latter was wiping the sweat from his forehead. He breathed deeply.... The flush of youth spread over his features.... His eyes sparkled with a
new and dangerous brilliancy.... He took the thing that had once been
Ernest Fielding by the hand and led it to its room. XXXI


With the first flush of the morning Ethel appeared at the door of the
house on Riverside Drive. She had not heard from Ernest, and had been
unable to obtain connection with him at the telephone. Anxiety had
hastened her steps. She brushed against Jack, who was also directing his
steps to the abode of Reginald Clarke. At the same time something that resembled Ernest Fielding passed from
the house of the Vampire. It was a dull and brutish thing, hideously
transformed, without a vestige of mind. "Mr. Fielding," cried Ethel, beside herself with fear as she saw him
descending. "Ernest!"