Covertly watching for new or suspicious faces, Pierre Lanier finds himself at the river-bank. His eyes bulge with frightened surprise.

Moving upstream, oars dipping in clear moonlight, is a familiar figure. Stoop and motion cannot be mistaken.

The father stares after that disappearing form. His indecision is short. Following along the bank, every sense alert, he resolves to watch his son and solve this enigma. Cautiously keeping out of view, Pierre is slightly in the rear of the boat. They are nearing the rustic seat where sat Oswald Langdon and Alice Webster on that fatal night years before. The boat stops at a projecting tree-branch. Pierre is petrified with a new fear! Dagger in hand, Paul examines this obstruction, looking thence toward either bank. He resumes the oars, again pausing at thick overhanging bushes. Peering under, around, and through the foliage, Paul rubs the glistening blade on upturned shoe-sole. Sheathing his weapon, he slowly moves toward the point whence the two bodies had disappeared into swollen stream. Directly opposite the rustic seat, he stops. Looking up, down, and across the river, Paul stands, steadying the boat with both oars, his thin-bladed dagger flashing from close-set jaws. Back and forth across the river, through moonlight shades, slowly moves this horrible tableau. Staring at reflected shadows, Paul shrinks backward. Dropping an oar, he grasps the pearl handle of his oft-whetted blade. With forward poise, in striking attitude, every nerve at tense strain, stands this crazed tragedian. Pierre is near enough to hear mutterings. Soon the relaxing form is again seated, while boat and dozing occupant drift downstream.

Pierre Lanier feels bewildered. These fearfully real hallucinations have neither antidote nor specific. Of what avail is craft against such emotional outlawry? This irresponsible infatuation of his son will rise like Banquo wraith, a menacing interloper at all councils, doggedly irresponsible, yet insistent.

Truly the Furies are massing their evasive yet resistless squares against this guilty soul.

How dread is the coherence of crimes and their effects!

That father and son might have luxurious refinements, trusting business associate deliberately is harassed under friendly guise of sympathetic interest to bankruptcy and death. As sworn legal representative, trust funds are misappropriated and retained through perjured accounting. To insure immunity from prosecution and continued possession of stolen estate, is planned the marriage between his son and defrauded ward. That girlish opposition to such hateful union may be crushed occurs the villainous conspiracy, involving remaining pittance of once princely estate, William Dodge's unfortunate connivance, and Paul's murderous assaults. This fearful category is followed by enforced concealments in disreputable dens of poverty, disguised skulkings along unlighted streets, furtive watches, deceitful ruses, scared embarkings for distant ports, new schemes for wealthy alliance, horrible tableaus, attempts at other murders, suspense of imprisonment, strange releases, and harassing uncertainty, compelling renewed flight, resulting in purposeless return of arch-criminals to scene of their most heinous crimes.

In this hunted maze, taxing every power of crafty, defensive vigilance, yawns a new pursuing vortex. From such menacing depths may not the eye withdraw nor step recede. This fearful presence is neither chimera of transient nightmare nor creation of evanescent day-dream. Like ever-present sprite, its boding menace pose shifts in accord with each changing view and altered visual range.

Stunned by this shock, Pierre Lanier gropingly stumbles along the Thames bank, following the drifting boat. Through all this bewilderment, self-preserving interest guides his course. Keeping close watch of that relaxed, dozing form, he recklessly tramples all impediments. Habitual, calculating craft of years is merged in this all-absorbing zeal to prevent indefinite exposure and contingent reckoning. It matters not that Nemesis, keeping pace with his own course, rustles through obstructing foliage. Crackling branches and pursuing footstep echoes are unheeded by this new, engrossing fear.

By great effort Pierre has followed the boat for miles, only briefly losing sight of his son. They are nearing the starting-point. Round a small curve the boat drifts with the shifting current. Pierre spurts forward to regain the lost view. Striking a grass-concealed bowlder, he pitches forward, falling heavily upon the bank. By hard effort he prevents rolling over into the stream. Regaining his feet, Pierre finds that one leg is badly sprained. He continues down the shore, but moves slowly. The boat and Paul are out of sight.

There is return of cautious fear. When scrambling back from the yawning depths, Pierre caught sight of a face partly screened by foliage of near bushes. He is startled. With certainty that his son has passed out of sight, the father now seeks to elude this mute intruder. Moving downstream, each step causing a groan, he is aware that this spy is following him, but at a cautious pace. After painful, harassed hours, this limping form, slowly descending those rickety cellar stairs, enters at a low opening, and totally collapsing, falls upon the stone floor.

The dim twilight is streaming through barred cellar transom when Pierre Lanier opens his eyes from that long swoon. It is several minutes before he vaguely comprehends what has happened. Gradually the situation dawns upon his mind. Recalling his weaned entrance at the cellar door and habitual testing of its catch, his memory is thereafter a blank. He mutters:

"How came I on Paul's cot? Why such comfortable arrangement of pillows and quilts? What means that array of bottles, cups, saucers, and glasses on the chair at my head? Can it be that I am in hospital ward?"

Pierre starts up with fright, stares wildly, and settles back with a groan. His leg pains terribly. Removing the light coverlid, he sees that the foot and ankle are tightly bandaged. Again he mutters: "There is odor of liniment! Who but an expert could have so neatly sewed those bands? Surely this is our own room. Has a doctor called and performed professional service? Where is Paul?"

By much effort Pierre gets up and staggers to the transom. The outside scenery is familiar. The door is locked. Turning the catch, he looks out and up the stairs, but sees no one. With puzzled expression he says: "Everything belonging to our room and wardrobe is here except Paul's usual London disguise. Paul must be out on some venturesome craze!"

Gradually Pierre's habitual craft returns. Whatever happens he must keep cool. Taking a discreet bracer of brandy and examining his pistols, Pierre lies down on the cot. There are toothsome eatables on the table. These he now devours with ravenous relish, but partakes sparingly of the tempting liquors. Between set teeth Pierre says: "There must be self-control and iron nerves. I will not trust any fictitious strength. Only a steady brain and hand tensely nerved by my cold-tempered yet dynamic will must keep this watch. If by any possible chance only Paul knows of my plight, then there is hope. Should it transpire that the spying figure seen on Thames bank has followed me home and is responsible for after happenings, longer dallying must cease. Perhaps Paul is now in custody. Those who shall come for Pierre Lanier will witness a change and have short shrift."

Lying with cocked pistols held in each hand under the light spread, this determined sentinel watches that cellar entrance.

After a half-hour, steps are heard on the stairs. Pierre's vigilant ear detects his son's gait. Quickly resetting pistol-hammers and placing both weapons under his pillow, the much relieved father feigns sleep under screen of upturned arm, watching lower half of cellar door.

It seems a long while before the door opens. Convinced that his son is alone, Pierre has no use for the pistols. Even should Paul meditate any violence, his father cannot resort to armed resistance. Ready to slay any other who hinders mature plans or attempts his arrest, Pierre Lanier may not hurt this crazed boy.

There is in that depraved soul at least one sacred precinct where this hunted, distracted, youthful head may find sanctuary. At this indulgent bar there is such accusing sense of self-accounting for all unfilial excesses as to preclude harsh judgment.

The door slowly opens. The lock clicks softly. Noislessly tiptoeing across the room, Paul looks long and anxiously at his sleeping father. At length he notes that most of the refreshments have disappeared. He does not perceive the significance of this fact, but thinks his father has continued in such queer stupor. Gently stroking the paternal brow, Paul sits down. With silk handkerchief immersed in brandy, the son rubs his father's temples and removes dirt-stains caused by fall of previous evening. Slowly lifting the quilt, Paul critically examines foot-bandages. Gently covering the swollen member, he resumes his watch, in subdued undertones uttering most tender, filial sympathies, hopes, and regrets.

It is doubtful if that listening sleeper ever before heard such soothing, softly modulated tones. Hoping that Paul would give some clew to recent events, Pierre lay long in this dissembling stupor. Fearing from his son's nervous preparations that he soon may start out on some night trip up the Thames, Pierre concludes to learn what has happened. Slowly opening his eyes and staring at Paul, he asks: "What time is it, Paul?"

With much sympathy, Paul replies: "I found you unconscious this morning lying on the cellar floor. I carried you to the cot, and from involuntary movements discovered the sprained ankle. After stitching on the saturated bandages, I brought out refreshments and liquors. You did not use these, but continued unconscious, responding only in mutterings. I watched all day until evening, and then went out a few minutes for some needed provisions." No reference was made to the previous night's experiences.

Much relieved, Pierre shows great appreciation of his boy's kindly interest.

Paul is pleased at these grateful comments. He now and then glances at his watch. Nervously walking to the door, he returns and sits down by his father's side. With much filial solicitude he says:

"Father, you should never venture out on late night watches. This attack was the result of last night's vigil.

"You are getting older, father, and can't stand night work. It will never do to risk such an attack at night. I cannot bear the thought of sleeping while you are wandering about London, liable to be paralyzed at any moment in some dark alley. I need my father's counsels too badly to risk losing him through such rash exposure."

Growing excited, Paul grasps his dagger, and glowering at the shrinking, reclining form, dramatically waves the glistening blade as he utters the injunction:

"Never go out again at night in London!"

Cowed by this unexpected pose and threat, Pierre Lanier promises to stay in nights.

"I know my dear son is right! My own Paul always will care for his poor old father!"

Paul grows quiet. With shamefaced, submissive mien he sheathes the thin, gleaming blade. Then follow suppressed sobs and hysterical assurances of future obedience.

With childish penitence this hardened youth, steeped in murderous guilt and crazed by tragic memories almost to the point of irresponsible parricide, hiding his face upon his father's breast, cries himself to sleep.