here may be found a lovely belief that our
thoughts are independent realities, that they go about in the void
seeking creatures to control. They are as bodiless souls. When they
descend into a human being they possess his moods, in very existence--"

"And Richard!" she muttered. His words swayed her like strange music;
the country through which they were passing was a blank; she could see
but two luminous points--the nocturnal eyes of Elvard Rentgen, as he
spun his cobwebs in the moonshine. She did not fear him; nothing could
frighten her now. One desire held her. If it were unslaked, she felt she
would collapse. It was to know the truth, to be told everything! He put
restraining fingers on her ungloved hand; they seemed like cold, fat
spiders. Yet she was only curious, with a curiosity that murdered the
spirit within her.

"To transfuse these shadows, my dear Alixe, has been one of my delights,
for I can project my futile desires into another's soul. I am denied the
gift of music-making, so this is my revenge on nature for bungling its
job. If Richard had genius, my intervention would be superfluous. He has
none. He is dull. You must realize it. But since he has known me, has
felt my influence, has been subject to my volition, my sorcery, you may
call it,--" his laugh was disagreeably conscious,--"he has developed the
shadow of a great man. He will seem a great composer. I shall make him
think he is one. I shall make the world believe it, also. It is my
fashion of squaring a life I hate. But if I chose to withdraw--"

The road they entered was black and full of the buzzing shadows of hot
night, but she was oblivious to everything but his hallucinating
voice:--

"And if you withdraw?" Her mouth echoed phrases without the complicity
of her brain.

"If I do--ah, these cobweb spinners! Good-by to Richard Van Kuyp and
dreams of glory." This note of harsh triumph snapped his weaving words.

"I don't believe you or your boasts," remarked Alixe, in her most
conventionally amused manner. "You are trying to scare me, and with this
hypnotic joke about Richard you have only hypnotized yourself. I mean to
tell Mr. Van Kuyp every bit of our conversation. I'm not frightened by
your vampire tales. You critics are only shadows of composers."

"Yes, but we make ordinary composers believe they are great," he replied
acridly.

"I'll tell this to Richard."

"He won't believe you."

"He shall--he won't believe _you_! Oh, Rentgen