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. This time he caught Jack's words:

"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel that
it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here."

"That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dear
boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he will
go to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained."

"This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you
read your play."

"That idea has since then developed into a monomania."

"I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. But
I always feared that he would come to such an end. Of late his letters
have been strangely unbalanced."

"You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer the
same."

"No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved."

Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony.
Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon the
cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling
he stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep.
Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus he