arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by
similar means security from burglars and bogeys. And in the broad
daylight Ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and
absurd. Still, he had abundant evidence of Reginald's strange influence,
and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. Her words, that
thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. If such was
the case, he would find evidence of Reginald's intellectual burglaries,
and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been
snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand.

But under no circumstances could he face Reginald in his present state
of mind. He was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the
other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so
terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. So he dressed particularly
slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. But fate
thwarted this hope. Reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long
over his coffee. He was just taking his last sip when Ernest entered the
room. His behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. Benevolence
fairly beamed from his face. But to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new
and sinister expression.

"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner.
"Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are
equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the
inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest
had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it
the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal.

He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His
feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he