Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest 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, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing had
changed there since then; only in Ernest'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 Reginald'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 Reginald,
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. Ernest paused for a
moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers.