y laugh,
to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing
against him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his
favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essay
at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the
foot of his bed.

The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir
of his strength was well nigh exhausted.

He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped with
sheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his
blood congealed with dread.

He felt the presence of the hand of Reginald
Clarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for something
that had still escaped him.

He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. When, by a
superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that
held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a
man, disappearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments from
his room....

This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like a
secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierce
anger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power
of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious
of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right.

The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at
night. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more
dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruit
of other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into the
mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters?
Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of this
insatiable monster?

Was this force resistless as it was relentless?

No, a thousand times, no!

He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of
Reginald Clarke had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secret
spring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossed
the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio.
The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, was
seated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paper
in his accustomed manner.

At Ernest's approach he looked up without evincing the least sign of
terror or surprise. Calmly,