ts memories had been torn asunder! He closed his eyes
for a moment in obedience to his exhausted vitality. Then he rose
slowly to his feet, went into his bedroom, and looked into the glass.
Was it Harold Dartmouth or the dead poet who was reflected there? He
went back, picked up the locket, and returned to the glass. He looked
at the picture, then at his own face, and again at the picture. They
were identical; there was not a line or curve or tint of difference.
He returned to his chair and rested his head on his hand. Was he this
man re-born? Did the dead come back and live again? Was it a dream, or
had he actually lived over a chapter from a past existence? He was a
practical man-of-the-world, not a vague dreamer--but all nature was
a mystery; this would be no stranger than the general mystery of life
itself. And he was not only this man reproduced in every line
and feature; he had his nature as well. His grandmother had never
mentioned her husband's name, but the Dartmouths had been less
reticent. They were fond of reiterating anecdotes of Lionel
Dartmouth's lawless youth, of his moody, melancholy temperament, and
above all, of the infallible signs he had shown of great genius. That
his genius had borne no fruit made no difference in their estimate; he
had died too soon, that was all--died of fever in Constantinople, the
story ran; there had never been a suggestion of scandal. And he had
come back to earth to fulfill the promise of long ago, and to give to
the world the one splendid achievement of that time. It had triumphed
over death and crime and revenge--but--He recalled those nights
of conflict in his mind. Would will and spirit ever conquer that
mechanical defect in his brain which denied his genius speech?

He drew his hand across his forehead; he was so tired. He pushed the
manuscript and letters into a drawer of the desk, and turning the
key upon them, opened the window and stepped out into the air.
His vitality was at as low an ebb as if from physical overwork and
fasting. He made no attempt to think, or to comment on the events
just past. For the moment they lost their interest, and he strolled
aimlessly about the park, his exhausted forces slowly recuperating.
At the end of an hour he returned to the house and took a cold
shower-bath and ate his breakfast. Then he felt more like himself. He
had a strong desire to return to his study and the lost manuscript,
but, with the wilful and pleasing procrastinatio