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.
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