It was the next day, and evening was far advanced. The idiot was sitting in the garden outside mumbling to himself, and stupidly turning and twisting a sort of white rag between his fingers. Through the dense mist in which his soul ever sat, one spark of light had penetrated. The white rag was the medium. Whenever he looked at the crumpled bit of cambric he held, the idiot seemed to feel, or to see, or to be conscious of—something. And that something—vague and wild as it was—meant hatred—blind, unfathomable hatred!

It had taken the place of his idolatry of his mother. She was gone; he did not know where—it was impossible for him to grasp that—but she was gone. She had been taken from him. And he knew by whom! Yes, he knew that, at all events. He could not have explained it to himself, but he knew his father had taken his mother away from him, and hatred—that "madness of the heart" —tore at his breast, crying aloud for vengeance.

He sat there, in the dying sunshine, and twisted the white rag. Whenever he looked at it, a queer vision rose within his blighted brain. His mother's room, and the big bed, and her hand hanging over the side of it. And over there his father.... He used to grow confused at that point. It was impossible for him to follow it out to the end, the poor brain got so obscured; but after a few minutes or so he could see again his father rising, with something white in his hand, and then—then—his mother's face was under it, and—and—that was all—except his father's hand pressing—pressing—pressing down!

The poor boy had stolen into his mother's sick-chamber during that eventful evening, and had hidden himself behind the large bed-curtains. He had, indeed, squeezed himself between the bed and the wall, fearful lest the nurses should send him away. They had been a little rough with him in the beginning of the day, and he distrusted them, believing, foolishly, that they meant to harm "Sho." He had been there off and on for hours—ever since his mad effort, indeed, to bring Agatha to his mother's help— crouching, waiting, beyond the knowledge of things. To be near her was all he asked: the adoration he had for her was only the blind, wild affection of an unreasoning animal, but it carried him far.

He saw him go back again to his chair, and again rise and approach the bed, this time with a handkerchief in his hand.

The poor boy had watched eagerly. Into his dull mind the sure conviction grew that with the wet handkerchief his father was going to do something to his mother that would enable her to talk again to him, to caress, to fondle him. He almost betrayed himself in his delight. He did not like his father, but many things had taught him that Darkham was clever. The idiot, watching and waiting, was firmly convinced that a miracle was going to be performed with the handkerchief, that it would make the dull, dead figure on the bed talk and smile again.

After that it was always blurred—his picture. He could not remember anything more. But there lived with him, like a shadow, a mad longing to kill his father!

He sat out there playing with the white cloth he held in his hand. The day was dying down, and it grew a little chilly, as days will in September. He crept from the garden-chair to the stone steps that led to the library above, where his father always sat.

The father was sitting there now, lying back in his lounging-chair and thinking. Oddly enough, in spite of himself, his thoughts ran to his dead wife. As a rule he did not permit himself to think of her, and it seemed absurd to do it now—now when he was thinking of taking a second wife.

He had come in from his round of daily visits a little fatigued. He was careful now to fatigue himself as much as possible during the daytime, it was so difficult to drop to sleep at night. He had seen Agatha for a moment, and had come home full of her—of the sweet beauty of her gentle face—of her superior air—of the extreme coldness of the salute she gave him.

The evening was wonderfully quiet. He lay back, and tried to bring up Agatha's face before him. But somehow she eluded him. He almost laughed aloud. It seemed so absurd. Her face, that was ever before him. No! he could not bring it up now—not so much as a feature. He laid his hands over his eyes, leaning back in his chair, to compel the vision. In the complete darkness he might find her.

But he did not—Instead, another face arose—pale, cold, ghastly! Once again he was staring at his unlovely dead! That hideous face! Great heavens! and lying there—there, sprawling on the floor with the mouth half open!

He dashed his hands from his eyes, and stood up, and stared before him, and then a yell broke from him!

....

Over there!.... What was that over there, in the shadow? That frightful face with a white cloth laid across it. Was it she come back to torment him?

Again he felt his hand pressing the wet handkerchief upon her nose, her mouth, and the faint struggle beneath his fingers. Such a sickening struggle! Again he pressed, and pressed, until he had pressed the very life out of her!

He clutched the chimney-piece and glared at that awful apparition. Had she come back? Was he never to be rid of her? Would she be always at his side, showing herself when—he grew almost frantic here—when his young bride was at his side?

His horror compelled movement. He loosed his desperate grasp upon the mantelpiece, and, like a drunken man, staggered forward. As he did so, the apparition stirred, and a terrible cry sounded through the room.

"Sho!"

It was like a battle-cry. As it reached his ear, Darkham stood still. All at once he knew—knew everything; the boy had been in the room that night, and had seen, and in a strange way understood.

He laughed aloud. It was quite safe, that secret. The boy could neither speak nor write, and as for her—what a fool he was! —why, she was too dull to find her way back to earth. He laughed again at this conceit, so glad he was at the solution of this ridiculous affair. He must be out of order, in want of a tonic, to have such absurd fancies.

In the meantime, he advanced upon his son. Sitting out there on the veranda, the idiot had conceived a splendid plan. He would lay this white thing over his face and go in and see his father; perhaps if he did his father would understand, and be frightened, and give "Sho" back to him. He had certainly taken her away. Heaven knows how this hope arose! But he crept in noiselessly, and sat crouching in the comer waiting for his father to see him, with the handkerchief laid across his mouth and nose exactly as he had seen it lying across hers. He sat there a long time, waiting for his plan to work, before Darkham turned and saw him.

Hatred, too, was in the heart of Darkham—a very madness of rage. He seized the boy and held him as in a vice, and leant over him, breathing hard, as if thinking what he should do with him. The devil of murder once more rose within him. He loosened one hand and laid it on his son's throat. He tightened his grasp!

In another moment he found himself dashed backwards against the wall. His head had come against it with astounding force, and for a second he was half stunned. He stood there panting. That creature, half his size, was stronger than he! His first thought was amazement. And the most curious thing of all was that he felt no resentment. The boy was strong! After all, Edwy could do something. He could conquer—he could kill!

The idiot had disappeared, but near where he had stood a white object could be seen. Darkham knew it at once. It was the handkerchief with which he had helped is wife to heaven. He stooped and picked it up. In spite of his hardihood, he felt a sense of strong repulsion as he touched it. Her life-blood seemed do be frozen into it. He compelled himself to open it, however, and look at it. Her name was in the corner, coarsely worked with red thread. It was just like any other of her handkerchiefs, yet he could have sworn it was the one. The boy must have picked it up that night. It must have fallen from his breast-pocket as he bent over the dead form upon the floor.

Well, there was nothing in it to incriminate him; still, it would be as well to get rid of it. The fire had been laid in the grate, but not lighted. He dropped the handkerchief on the table, and went to find some matches on the mantelpiece. With these he stooped and lit the dry kindling, and soon the fire began to roar up the chimney.

He turned to the table to get the handkerchief. Once burned, he told himself, he would forget it—and so, too, would the boy. But apparently the boy had not forgotten it, even for a few minutes. When Darkham looked for the handkerchief it was gone. The idiot had come back for his relic.

Darkham stood and thought for a moment. No, there was no danger; and it might only excite that fool the more to compel him to restore it.

Still, he felt disturbed. He went to the window. The evening was divinely fair. It would rest him and arrange his thoughts to go for a stroll. He would walk down toward Rickton Villa—not to it, exactly. Her aunt was away this evening at the Monteiths'; but Agatha was sometimes in her garden at this hour, tending her flowers. There, or through the windows, he might, perhaps, get a glimpse of her.