"_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.

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