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 unbala