himself reading a passage which had a strangely
familiar ring in it--he thought at first it was merely that passing
impression of a vague sameness in things which would vanish on
analysis--but, as he read on, the impression grew stronger at every
line. He turned to the beginning of the article, a notice on a recent
book, and read it from beginning to end with eager care. Was he
dreaming still, or mad? or how was it that in this work, with a
different title and by a strange writer, he seemed to recognise the
creation of his own brain? He was sure of it; this book 'Illusion' was
practically the same in plot and character--even in names--as the
manuscript he had entrusted to Mark Ashburn, and believed a hopeless
failure. If this was really his book, one of his most cherished
ambitions had not failed after all; it was noticed in a spirit of
warm and generous praise, the critic wrote of it as having even then
obtained a marked success--could it be that life had possibilities for
him beyond his wildest hopes?

The excitement of the discovery blinded Vincent just then to all
matters of detail: he was too dazzled to think calmly, and only
realised that he could not rest until he had found out whether he was
deceiving himself or not. Obviously he could learn nothing where he
was, and he resolved to go up to town immediately. He would see Mark
there, if he was still in London, and from him he would probably get
information on which he might act--for, as yet, it did not even occur
to Vincent that his friend could have played a treacherous part.
Should he confide in Caffyn before he went? Somehow he felt reluctant
to do that; he thought that Caffyn would feel no interest in such
things (though here, as we know, he did him an injustice), and he
decided to tell him no more than might seem absolutely necessary.

He rang and ordered the dog-cart to take him to Drigg next day in time
to meet the morning train, and, after packing such things as he would
want, lay awake for some time in a sleeplessness which was not
irksome, and then lost himself in dreams of a fantastically brilliant
future.

When Caffyn had had enough of the huntsmen he returned to the
sitting-room, and was disgusted to find that Holroyd had retired and
left the Review. 'I shall hear all about it to-morrow,' he said to
himself; 'and if he knows nothing--I shall have to enlighten him
myself!'

But not being an early riser at any time, he overslept himself even
more