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 procrastination of one who knows
that satisfaction is within his grasp, he put the temptation aside
for the present, and spent the day riding over his estates with his
steward. He also gave his business affairs a minute attention which
delighted his servant. After dinner he smoked a cigar, then went into
his study and locked the door. He sat down before the desk, and for
a moment experienced a feeling of dread. He wanted no more visions:
would contact with those papers induce another? He would like to read