Darkness had fallen. The wind was sighing heavily, and no star appeared.

Through the dense shadow of the trees Darkham was hurrying swiftly, stealthily. Sometimes he ran, but always he made great haste.

A loose sweeping branch met him, and cut him across the face a swingeing blow. He felt no pain. When he had broken it he cast it aside impatiently and went on with even increasing speed.

Suddenly he stood still and listened. Again!

It was the second time he had heard that sound, or fancied he had heard it. A dull unplaceable sound, yet one that suggested itself to him as the footsteps of a person following.

Once before he had stopped to listen, but nothing came of it, except the heavy soughing of the wind in the trees as the storm swept over them. No sound but that. Yet all through his hurried walk in the wood, it had seemed to him that that sound lay behind him, as though some strange thing was haunting him.

He went on again, moving cautiously, yet with great speed. Every now and then he thrust his hand into his inner pocket, and there felt for something, and patted it with a curious affection.

As he passed the edge of the wood, almost as his foot was on the road, he started. He looked back. The murky shadows of the wood told him nothing; but—that sound! Again that sound! He could have sworn he heard footsteps!

A sudden fear caught him; he turned, and rushed back into the wood, crashing to right and left of him. If he was followed, why, his purpose would be at an end; but he swore to himself, as he rushed here and there, that if he caught the man who had circumvented him, he would kill him on the spot.

Then his fury abated. He grew suddenly quite quiet. There was nothing, after all—nothing.

He wiped his brow and went on.

He tried the latch of the gate, but it was locked. He cared nothing for small obstructions like that. He climbed it easily enough, and went on down the avenue.

As he drew near the house, for the first time fear rose within his heart. But it was a fear that would have made the angels weep.

Was the ladder there? Or had one of the workmen taken it away?

He ran frantically to the break in the laurels from which the house could be seen.

The ladder was there!

He thrust his hand for the last time into his pocket, and felt the knife, and fondled it. Then he went on.

He reached the ladder, put his foot on it, and mounted. He began to climb quickly, yet with a dogged determination to make no mistake. There should be no false step.

When he was half-way up he looked down. Beneath was an area that surrounded the whole house—an area lately cemented. It was broad and white and clean. In the darkness it made a sort of light.

He turned his eyes from that and looked up. The window above was open—wide open; the sash had not been replaced.

He mounted still higher. The sill was almost within his reach; he put out his hand to grasp it, but it fell short. Another rung or two, and then—-

Suddenly he made a lurch forward and clung to the ladder. The ladder was swaying to and fro. He made a quick rush upwards and put out his hand to grasp the ledge of Dillwyn's window—but he was still too low for that.

The ladder was swaying heavily from side to side; it was now almost on the very edge of the sill. Soon it would be over. Something from below must be dragging it—dragging—-

He made a frantic dash at the sill—and missed it!

Again the ladder swayed, this time towards the desired sill. Darkham braced himself for a last effort. He made a dash and sprang on to the sill of Dillwyn's room.

That precipitated the end. The ladder, reaching the edge, toppled over and went with a crash to the cemented area below.

Darkham, clutching on to the sill, saw the fall of the ladder. That meant death unless help came soon; and who was to give him help? The man he had come to murder?

He clung on desperately, his nails working into the hard stone. If he shouted, Dillwyn would hear him, would rescue him; but even at this last moment his hatred of Dillwyn held him dumb.

His fingers were growing tired—his nails were wearing away and loosening.... In a moment they would come to the edge, and then—-

Mad despair was in his heart. He clung desperately to the sill! A minute—could he hold on another minute? There was only a minute left. Was it so far to fall. Death rather than an appeal to his rival. So far the strength of the man held out.

But now his nails were loosening; his eyes, mad with fear, sought the ground below.

He looked—and looked—and all at once a fearful yell broke from him.

What was that thing down there—crouching—with that white cloth over her mouth? Had she come—was she waiting for him?

Great God! have mercy!

His fingers gave way. He fell with a sickening scream on to the hard cement below.

There was a hideous thud.

....

That awful yell had wakened Dillwyn from his sleep—a sleep that would have been death but for it. He sprang up and rushed to the open window, but too late! He caught a vague, awful vision of one falling—falling through the air into eternity—but that was all.

It was enough, however; he lit a lamp, and rushed downstairs to the front of the house. There he lowered the lamp and looked about him. Nothing—nothing to be seen. He stepped down from the avenue on to the newly-cemented area that ran round the house, and looked about him with an anxious gaze. Suddenly he found he was stepping on a little crimson line that ran towards him sluggishly.

With a sharp ejaculation he stepped aside. A cold chill ran through him. All at once he knew that it was blood.

Then he went on, following up the red line until he came to—-

Darkham was lying on the pavement, smashed almost out of recognition, yet still alive. Dillwyn knew that by the convulsive twitching of the fingers.

A figure was bending over him. Dillwyn at once saw it was the idiot, and even as he watched, the unhappy creature bent lower and laid a white cloth over the dying man's nose and mouth, pressing it down with a demoniacal force.

Dillwyn hurried forward, calling aloud as he came, but the idiot crouching over Darkham could not hear. At last he reached them and flung himself upon the wretched boy, and tore him from his prey.

The idiot grappled with him in a sort of frenzy, but Dillwyn held on. The lamp threw a dull light upon the dying man's face—but above them and around was gloom.

All at once the idiot desisted from his struggle; he pointed frantically to Darkham.

Dillwyn followed his gaze. Darkham had risen on his elbow—it was the last effort before death. Dillwyn went to him and laid his arm round him, but Darkham pushed him back. Yet it seemed to the younger man that, though Darkham's hatred of him followed him to the grave, his last thoughts were not of him.

The dying man lifted his hand and pointed it slowly, solemnly at his son—the son who sat opposite to him, laughing in his dying face. There was some awful meaning in Darkham's glazing eyes, as though he saw something beyond the idiot—something so horrible that it kept him alive in spite of nature. He struggled forward as though to address some one—some one Dillwyn could not see —but the struggle was too much for him, and he fell back.... Dillwyn caught him in his arms—he was dead.

A great shout rose from the idiot.

"Sho! Sho! Sho!" yelled he.

His mother was avenged.