He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. When, by a
superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that
held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a
man, disappearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments from
his room....

This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like a
secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierce
anger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power
of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious
of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right.

The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at
night. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more
dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruit
of other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into the
mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters?
Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of this
insatiable monster?

Was this force resistless as it was relentless?

No, a thousand times, no!

He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of
Reginald Clarke had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secret
spring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossed
the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio.
The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, was