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 Reginald Clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible trade.  The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own face, white, excited,—­the face of a madman.

XXIX

The next morning’s mail brought a letter from Ethel, a few lines of encouragement and affection.  Yes, she was right; it would not do for him to stay under one roof with Reginald 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.

Reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busily writing.  Only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence in the house.  There was no chance for conversation or for obtaining the precious manuscript of “Leontina.”

Meanwhile Ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everything for a quick departure.  Glancing over old letters and notes, he became readily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours.

When the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed.  It was now ten.  At twelve he had promised Ethel to speak to her over the telephone.  He was determined not to sleep at all that night.  At last he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nights Reginald had secretly entered his room.

When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a little.  His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed to stir at the door.  The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor.

At once Ernest sprang up.  His face had blanched with terror.  It was whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead.  But his soul was resolute.

He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole chamber.  There was no nook for even a shadow to hide.  Yet there was no one to be seen.  From without the door came no sound.  Suddenly something soft touched his foot.  He gathered all his will power so as not to break out into a frenzied shriek.  Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh, to be sure.  A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing against him.  The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room.  After its essay at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the foot of his bed.

The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir of his strength was well nigh exhausted.