Balzac, Napoleon—­and Reginald, forcibly impressed itself upon his mind.  It was the indisputable something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to some gigantic world-purpose.  In Balzac’s face it was diffused with kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated.  The image of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before his eyes.  Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but he could have sworn that this man’s features, too, bore the mark of those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse, are born to rob and rule.  They seemed to him monsters that know neither justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth.

Common weapons would not avail against such forces.  Being one, they were stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat.  Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in such a fight.  In this case the end justified the means, even if the latter included burglary.

After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally discovered.  He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton key, when at last the lock gave way.

The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript.  Ernest paused for a moment to draw breath.  The paper rustled under his nervous fingers.  And there—­at last—­his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend:  “Leontina, A Novel.”

It was true, then—­all, his dream, Reginald’s confession.  And the house that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire!

Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation.  He attempted to read.  The letters seemed to dance before his eyes—­his hands trembled.

At last he succeeded.  The words that had first rolled over like drunken soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence.  He was delighted, then stunned.  This was indeed authentic literature, there could be no doubt about it.  And it was his.  He was still a poet, a great poet.  He drew a deep breath.  Sudden joy trembled in his heart.  This story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his brain.

There were some slight changes—­slight deviations from the original plan.  A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for all that it remained his very own.  It did not belong to that thief.  The blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to Reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious.

He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the hallway.  Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the drawer and left the room on tiptoe.