"You can. There is the story in your hands. Think what it will do for you. It is one of the immortal stories—"
"You have read it, then?" I asked.
"Haven't you?"
"Yes—but—"
"It is the same," it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug. "You and I are inseparable. Aren't you glad?" it added, with a laugh that grated on every fibre of my being. I was too overwhelmed to reply, and it resumed: "It is one of the immortal stories. We agree to that. Published over your name, your name will live. The stuff you write yourself will give you present glory; but when you have been dead ten years people won't remember your name even—unless I get control of you, and in that case 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.
"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?"
"I shall not use it!" I cried, desperately.
"You must—consider your children. Suppose you lose your connection with these publishers of yours?"
"But it would be a crime."