IN a dingy little bedroom of a dingy little hotel in one of the lesser avenues of New York Ewing sat waiting for his hour. He had sealed his letter to Mrs. Laithe with the feeling that this was the last intelligible word he could say to anyone. Henceforth he must be silent; refuse reasons. He must let them devise reasons for him. Any but the true reason would suffice.

When darkness came on he went out into the noisy street, mailing the letter as he passed through the hotel office. Then, by unfamiliar thoroughfares he made his way to Ninth Street and resumed his old vigil in front of Teevan's house.

There were lights in the house, both above and below. The thing was not, then, to be attempted at the moment. He walked for an hour through squalid streets to the west and came back to his post. The house was still alight. Teevan, apparently, was entertaining. He watched but a moment, then returned to his hotel and went to bed. He could be patient, and he must be thorough. Before extinguishing his light he made sure that he had not lost what was now his most important possession: a key to Teevan's door. Teevan had bestowed it on him the year before, in order that he might obtain books during the little man's absence from town. Ewing had forgotten the key until he set on his present mission; then he had perceived a use for it.

He fell asleep, despite the recurrent tumult of elevated trains outside his window; fell asleep thinking of Teevan. There was no bitterness in his heart toward the little man. It was only necessary that he die.

He kept closely to his room the next day, wishing not to be recognized by any of his acquaintances, and he was at his post early in the evening. This time the house was dark. Teevan was out, but he would return. So he paced back and forth through Ninth Street, going only so far as would let him keep the house in view. He felt no impatience. It was his last work, and he could bide the time when it might be well done. A little after midnight two men entered the street from Fifth Avenue, strolling leisurely in the warm June night, and ascended the steps of the Teevan house. Ewing felt a slight tingling of relief when he recognized Teevan, but then he saw the other take a key from his pocket, and he knew that this would be Teevan's son. They went in together, and the watcher left his post. He must have Teevan alone in the house.

He walked on with strange echoes from another time—from another world, it seemed, sounding in his ears. The sight of Teevan, the tones of his voice, faintly heard, seemed to awaken him from some dream in which he walked, awaken him to a time when the little man was his good friend. He felt a sudden nausea, but then he raised his eyes to the Bartell house opposite and was himself again. He crossed the street and stood a moment before the door, seeing his lady there, seeing her again as he had seen her that night in Teevan's grasp, striving with Teevan, weakly, but with the killing light in her eyes. The vision convinced him. The other time had been the time of dream. He had not been awake until now.Again he slept and again he passed a day of waiting. That night there were no lights in the house, but also no returning master, though he waited until the night was far on. Yet he went to sleep in all patience, knowing he had only to wait.

On the fourth night there were lights again, but about ten o'clock he saw Teevan's two servants leave. He walked on, to avoid recognition by them. When he returned a man was leaving the house. He thought this might be Teevan, but when the figure had descended the steps and passed under the street lamp he saw it to be Teevan's son. Still he waited. He must be sure.

After half an hour the lights in the lower part of the house went out, save one that shone dimly through the fanlight over the door. A moment later two windows on the floor above leaped ruddily into view and he saw a shadow pass across them. This was Teevan's room, and Teevan was doubtless there, alone at last.

He did not cross the street directly, but walked east to the end of the block and came back on the other side. As he passed the Bartell house he opened and closed his hands tensely, recalling Ben's suggestion about a weapon. His bare hands were sufficing weapons.

He went up the steps and softly turned his key in the lock. The door yielded noiselessly to his push and he was in the hall. Unconsciously he took off his hat and was about to leave it, but then he smiled and replaced it firmly on his head. He stood listening a moment. There was no sound. Then, very slowly, taking each step with caution, he mounted the thickly carpeted stairs.

So intent was he on his purpose that he felt no anxiety, no excitement. As he halted at the head of the stairs to listen again, he thrilled only with the need for perfect silence, a thing he would have felt in the same degree if his quarry had been a deer in some green cover of the hills. Still without a sound he felt his way to the door of Teevan's room. The door was open and light from it glowed dimly into the hall. He paused within the shadow and peered into the room. He could see the desk but not the man who sat before it. Of him he could see only an arm and hand—writing at the moment. Presently the hand dropped its pen and took up a tall glass that stood near. The glass ascended and passed beyond the watcher's range of vision. The hand brought it back, empty, a moment later, and resumed the pen once more.

He took a step forward and brought the room into view. Teevan sat at the desk, his head bent and half turned away. Ewing coolly noted his position. He seemed smaller than ever, smaller and older. But now no time must be wasted.

Ewing stepped through the doorway with noiseless tread and took one long step toward the desk. Teevan turned his head and looked up. His eyes rested on Ewing, at first vacantly, his mind still busied with the matter of his writing. Ewing thrilled with a sudden alertness, his purpose growing in his eyes, his hands tensely closing and unclosing. Teevan started back from the desk, conscious now of the intruder's menace. Yet such was the cool fixedness of Ewing's gaze, the hypnotic tenseness of his crouch, that the little man made no sound; only stared as one under a spell, the pen still held in his poised hand.

Only when the crouching figure leaped toward him did his lips open. But then, what would have been a cry of terror became a mere gurgling snarl, for Ewing's hands had met about his throat with unerring deftness. Teevan was half-raised from the chair, his head was forced back, and for an instant his eyes met Ewing's in full consciousness. Then his mouth opened wide, but not for speech, and his eyes rolled in the agony of that choking grip. Ewing felt the thing writhe in his clutch, then felt a sudden terrible relaxation, and his pressure ceased in unthinking response to this. He stood a moment, holding the limp form, then dropped it in the chair, feeling himself sicken at the sheer physical horror of what he was doing. There was no pity for Teevan—only for the animal that suffered. He had had to kill a dog once and his loathing of that deed was like this. Teevan's head lay over on his shoulder, his face distorted and purple, his eyes upturned and fixed in a hideous stare. The fine little hands hung limply down.

At the moment Ewing believed his task was done, but then he was dismayed by a gasping, indrawn breath and the convulsive shuddering of Teevan's chest. The little man was breathing again, though still unconscious. The dog had shown this same horrible tenacity. He must do the thing all over again. He bent over the figure, again fixing his grip nicely at the throat. He would make sure this time. Then nerving himself to exert the needed pressure, he turned his eyes away—he could not look at the face in its death agony—turned his eyes away and found himself staring stupidly at Alden Teevan, who stood inside the door. They gazed at each other a moment until Ewing had appraised the significance of this interruption. It meant only that he would be swiftly apprehended, for he knew that Alden Teevan could not save his father. He had not changed his position, still bending over the little man, still fingering his throat. He was conscious of an increase in his purpose; this hint of opposition would enable him to kill Teevan with a better spirit. He spoke and his voice was only a little hoarse under the strain.

"I'm killing your father. I don't want to hurt you, but you mustn't try to stop me. If you do, by God! I'll kill both of you. If you keep away I'll go with you after I've done it. I promise that."

He turned again to the livid face beneath him. But the younger Teevan called sharply to him, though with only irritation in his voice:

"Stop! Don't be an ass! You're making an ass of yourself!"

Ewing only stared at him. The other came a step nearer in his eagerness.

"You'll be sorry if you don't listen to me. You're a fool, I tell you."

Ewing smiled confidently, bitterly, not relaxing his hold of the little man's throat.

"I'm not doing it for myself."

"All the more fool!"

"For some one who couldn't do it—who has reason to do it."

The other came nearer, clutching Ewing's sleeve with gentle persuasion and speaking with quick intensity.

"Ah, so that's it—she never told you! But you're a fool. She had no reason—she was merely trying to save you from the truth about your mother, and she has let you believe his lies about herself. What a rotten fool you were to think that contemptible little mucker could ever have been anything to her. He lied to you, do you hear me? Lied to you about her, and she let you believe it—a fool herself for doing that—so you wouldn't know the truth about your own mother."

Slowly Ewing unclasped his hands from the throat of Teevan and stood facing the son. Two phrases rang in his ears: "He lied to you about her—the truth about your mother." He put up a hand to loosen his collar. It seemed now as if he himself were being choked.

"The truth about my mother—what truth about my mother?"

"Sit down there."

"What truth about my mother?"

"Come—get hold of yourself. The truth that your mother happened to be my mother."

Ewing passed a hand over his face, as if to awaken himself from some trance in which he had moved.

"Sit down there."

He felt for a chair now and sank awkwardly into it, repeating dazedly:

"My mother was your mother—" He could get no meaning from the words. The other answered sharply:

"Your mother married my father. She left him for your father when I was a baby. Do you understand that? Mrs. Laithe knew it. He knew it—" He pointed toward the limp but breathing figure in the chair—"and she was afraid he would tell you."

He tried to take it in.

"My mother—his wife? Ah—you—you are my brother."

"That's beside the point; but if it means anything to you, listen to me—try to understand."

Again and again he told the thing point by point, as simply as he could, while his listener stared curiously at him. The figure in the chair stirred, the head rolled, the breathing became quieter and more even, but neither gave any heed to this.

At last the incredible thing began to shape itself in Ewing's mind, but it was not until the very last, and then it came as a sudden blinding illumination. The man in the chair drew a long, shuddering breath and opened his eyes on them. Ewing at the same moment caught the full force of the little man's deceit. He had felt no anger toward Teevan before, but now rage grew within him as he remembered what the woman had suffered. He sprang toward Teevan, feeling no longer a specific desire to kill, but only a mad impulse to beat down and blindly destroy.

"You lied about her!" he cried, towering above the little man with clenched, threatening fists. If Teevan had retorted, had raised a hand, or betrayed anything but abject fear, shrinking in his chair, turning eyes of appeal to his son, Ewing would have vented his rage. But this died into mere loathing as he looked. Teevan was near to whimpering, in his fear. Ewing turned away with a gesture of repulsion.

"That's best, after all," remarked the son coolly.

"Doubtless he deserves kicking more than any unkicked man alive, but you'll be glad you didn't do it."

Ewing shot another look at Teevan, and then said, almost as if to himself.

"How wise my mother was!" He turned again to the little man with a sudden blaze of scorn.

"And you believed I could think less of her for leaving you—leaving you for a man!" Teevan merely closed his eyes and cautiously raised a hand to his neck."You'll be glad you let him off," repeated the son, "and so will she. She wouldn't have you——"

"Ah—she!" It was a cry of remembrance. "Why—she's—" He broke off, glowing with a strange illumination. "Why, I left her——"

A moment longer he stood, like a sleeper wakened, then rushed from the room.