that threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind.  For Reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory.  In that case only one way was left open.  He must plead with Reginald himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls.  To-night he would not fall asleep.  He would keep his vigil.  And if Reginald should approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin.  He had fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who had just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie.  But her gladness changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was.  Ernest recounted to her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in Reginald’s desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard.  He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his tale.

“Was your novel finished?” she suddenly asked.

“I think so.”

“Then you are out of danger.  He will want nothing else of you.  But you should have taken it with you.”

“I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer.  To-morrow I shall simply demand it.”

“You will do nothing of the kind.  It is in his handwriting, and you have no legal proof that it is yours.  You must take it away secretly.  And he will not dare to reclaim it.”

“And Jack?”

She had quite forgotten Jack.  Women are invariably selfish for those they love.

“You must warn him,” she replied.

“He would laugh at me.  However, I must speak to Reginald.”

“It is of no avail to speak to him.  At least, you must not do so before you have obtained the manuscript.  It would unnecessarily jeopardise our plans.”

“And after?”

“After, perhaps.  But you must not expose yourself to any danger.”

“No, dear,” he said, and kissed her; “what danger is there, provided I keep my wits about me?  He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the dark.”

“Be careful, nevertheless.”

“I shall.  In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment.  If I go now I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he returns.”

“I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house.”

“You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two.”

“Shall I see you to-morrow?”

“I don’t think so.  I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready at any moment to leave the house.”

“And then?”

“Then—­”

He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes.

“Yes,” she replied—­“at least, perhaps.”

Then he turned to go, resolute and happy.  How strangely he had matured since the summer!  Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was her love that had effected this transformation.