ind on the bookstall there. He began to read it at once
with a painful interest, for he dreaded lest he had deluded himself
in some strange way, but he had not read very far before he became
convinced that this was indeed his book--his very own. Here and there,
it was true, there were passages which he did not remember having
written, some even so obviously foreign to the whole spirit of the
book that he grew hot with anger as he read them--but for the most
part each line brought back vivid recollections of the very mood and
place in which it had been composed. And now he observed something
which he had not noticed in first reading the Review--namely, that
'Illusion' was published by the very firm to which he had sent his own
manuscript. Had not Mark given him to understand that Chilton and
Fladgate had rejected it? How could he reconcile this and the story
that the manuscript had afterwards been accidentally destroyed, with
the fact of its publication in its present form? And why was the title
changed? Who was this Cyril Ernstone, who had dared to interfere with
the text? The name seemed to be one he had met before in some
connection--but where? Had not Mark shown him long ago a short article
of his own which had been published in some magazine over that or some
very similar signature? Terrible suspicions flashed across him when
these and many other similar circumstances occurred to him. He fought
hard against them, however, and succeeded in dismissing them as
unworthy of himself and his friend: he shrank from wronging Mark, even
in thought, by believing him capable of such treachery as was implied
in these doubts. He felt sure of his honour, and that he had only to
meet him to receive a perfectly satisfactory explanation of his
conduct in the matter, and then Mark and he would hunt down this
impostor, Cyril Ernstone, together, and clear up all that was
mysterious enough at present. In the meantime he would try to banish
it from his mind altogether, and dwell only on the new prospects which
had opened so suddenly before him; and in this he found abundant
occupation for the remainder of his journey.

He reached Euston too late to do anything that night, and the next
morning his first act, even before going in search of Mark, was to
drive to Kensington Park Gardens with some faint hope of finding that
Mabel had returned. But the windows were blank, and even the front
door, as he stood there knocking and ringing repeatedl