e 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