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.
It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him.
The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make out what it said. He
listened intently and--was it possible? Jack? Surely he could not yet
have come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dim
presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he
linger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him?
Cautiously he drew nearer.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136