Shivers for Christmas by Richard Dalby Page A

there is a very pretty though hardly a literary record in store for you.’
    Again it laughed harshly, and I buried my face in the pillows of my couch, hoping to find relief there from this dreadful vision.
    â€˜Curious,’ it said. ‘What you call your decent self doesn’t dare look me in the eye! What a mistake people make who say that the man who won’t look you in the eye is not to be trusted! As if mere brazenness were a sign of honesty; really, the theory of decency is the most amusing thing in the world. But come, time is growing short. Take that story. The writer gave it to you. Begged you to use it as your own. It is yours. It will make your reputation, and save you with your publishers. How can you hesitate?’
    â€˜I shall not use it!’ I cried, desperately.
    â€˜You must—consider your children. Suppose you lose your connection with these publishers of yours?’
    â€˜But it would be a crime.’
    â€˜Not a bit of it. Whom do you rob? A man who voluntarily came to you, and gave you that of which you rob him. Think of it as it is—and act, only act quickly. It is now midnight.’
    The tempter rose up and walked to the other end of the room, whence, while he pretended to be looking over a few of my books and pictures, I was aware he was eyeing me closely, and gradually compelling me by sheer force of will to do a thing which I abhorred. And I—I struggled weakly against the temptation, but gradually, little by little, I yielded, and finally succumbed altogether. Springing to my feet, I rushed to the table, seized my pen, and signed my name to the story.
    â€˜There!’ I said. ‘It is done. I have saved my position and made my reputation, and am now a thief!’
    â€˜As well as a fool,’ said the other, calmly. ‘You don’t mean to say you are going to send that manuscript in as it is?’
    â€˜Good Lord!’ I cried. ‘What under heaven have you been trying to make me do for the last half hour?’
    â€˜Act like a sane being,’ said the demon. ‘If you send that manuscript to Currier he’ll know in a minute it isn’t yours. He knows you haven’t an amanuensis, and that handwriting isn’t yours. Copy it.’
    â€˜True!’ I answered. ‘I haven’t much of a mind for details to-night. I will do as you say.’
    I did so. I got out my pad and pen and ink, and for three hours diligently applied myself to the task of copying the story. When it was finished I went over it carefully, made a few minor corrections, signed it, put it in an envelope, addressed it to you, stamped it, and went out to the mail-box on the corner, where I dropped it into the slot, and returned home. When I had returned to my library my visitor was still there.
    â€˜Well,’ it said, ‘I wish you’d hurry and complete this affair. I am tired, and wish to go.’
    â€˜You can’t go too soon to please me,’ said I, gathering up the original manuscripts of the story and preparing to put them away in my desk.
    â€˜Probably not,’ it sneered. ‘I’ll be glad to go too, but I can’t go until that manuscript is destroyed. As long as it exists there is evidence of you having appropriated the work of another. Why, can’t you see that? Burn it!’
    â€˜I can’t see my way clear in crime!’ I retorted. ‘It is not in my line.’
    Nevertheless, realizing the value of his advice, I thrust the pages one by one into the blazing log fire, and watched them as they flared and flamed and grew to ashes. As the last page disappeared in the embers the demon vanished. I was alone, and throwing myself down for a moment’s reflection upon my couch, was soon lost in sleep.
    It was noon when I again opened my eyes, and, ten minutes after I awakened, your telegraphic summons reached me.
    â€˜Come down at once,’ was what you said, and I went; and then came the terrible