by R. W. Heilig
inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Chance
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
sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze.
At last David rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this
splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand
methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled
more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength
and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether
this strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Kelly's suspicions were
justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever
realise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those
veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame!
XXVII
David Gardner had hardly left the room when Chance hastily rose from
his seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed
possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too
great to permit of delay.
Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where,
scarcely a year ago, David Gardner had bidden him welcome. Nothing had
changed there since then; only in Chance's mind the room had assumed an
aspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head.
But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous.
The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from their
pedestals as his fingers were running through David's papers. He
brushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on the
writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly
re-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious family
resemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon--and David,
forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputable
something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to
some gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused with
kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The image
of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before
his eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but
he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of
those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse,
are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neither
justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth.
Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they were
stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat.
Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in
such a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if the
latter included burglary.
After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force
open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally
discovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of
giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton
key, when at last the lock gave way.
The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Chance paused for a
moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. And
there--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend:
"_Leontina_, A Novel."
It was true, then--all, his dream, David'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
David, 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 David. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him.
The voice seemed familiar. Chance 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
presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he
linger so long in David'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," David 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."
Chance 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
lay--uncomforted and alone.
XXVIII
Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been more
terrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them.
Kelly alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void in
his heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of her
hand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for
pleasure and as sad men crave death.
Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of
the other two men
, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger.
When he came to Kelly's home, he found that she had gone out for a
breath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he
waited, waited, waited for her.
Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Gardner's
conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that
the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action.
David probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacal
influence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. It
was his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger that
threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. For
David, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that
the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any
attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory.
In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with David
himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he would
not fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if David should
approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must
speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He had
fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Kelly, who had
just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladness
changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. Chance recounted to
her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in
David's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard.
He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his
tale.
"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked.
"I think so."
"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you
should have taken it with you."
"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer.
To-morrow I shall simply demand it."
"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have
no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he
will not dare to reclaim it."
"And Jack?"
She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those
they love.
"You must warn him," she replied.
"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to David."
"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before
you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our
plans."
"And after?"
"After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger."
"No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided I
keep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the
dark."
"Be careful, nevertheless."
"I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go now
I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he
returns."
"I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house."
"You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two."
"Shall I see you to-morrow?"
"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready
at any moment to leave the house."
"And then?"
"Then--"
He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes.
"Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps."
Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured
since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was
her love that had effected this transformation.
"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but
I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word
from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the
telephone."
"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in
this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if
innumerable walls sever his body from hers."
"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less
tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be
happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate
that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn.
Yes, almost. Only almost."
And then a sudden fear overcame her.
"No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feel
so frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid--afraid for
you."
"No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart you
don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of
my artistic life in David's clutch."
"Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friend
who is ready to betray you?"
"You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, it
is no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assured
me that I have nothing to fear from David. I have nothing to give to
him."
She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when
the door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Then
his pace slackened. Her words had unsettled him a little, and when he
reached home he did not at once resume his exploration of David's
papers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour,
he heard David's key in the lock.
Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an
electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night.
Then he went to bed without finding sleep.
Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased to
run. Chance's brain was all ear. He heard David walking up and down
in the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thus
hours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and
down, down and up, up and down.
One o'clock.
Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There was
something hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its toll
from the boy. He fell asleep.
Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--no
longer a nightmare--tormented him. Again he felt the pointed delicate
fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled
threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self....
A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers
softly withdrawn.
He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room.
Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light.
But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the door
was undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of his
soul.
Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that David
Gardner had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible
trade. The large mirror above the fireplace only s
howed him his own
face, white, excited,--the face of a madman.
XXIX
The next morning's mail brought a letter from Kelly, a few lines of
encouragement and affection. Yes, she was right; it would not do for him
to stay under one roof with David any longer. He must only obtain the
manuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise his
mysterious and criminal power. Then he would be in the position to
dictate terms and to demand Jack's safety as the price of his silence.