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 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 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.

Ethel 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 Ethel’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 Clarke’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.  Reginald 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