Wearied by his long search, despairing of Paul's return, Pierre Lanier had lain down and slept several hours. His loaded pistols are at hand.

These now are useless. Pierre will not even make show of such defense.

He may not trust his forbearance in this emergency. There is surfeit of tragic memories. Life's weight is sufficiently heavy without added burden of child-murder.

Paul continues staring, muttering, and brandishing his gleaming weapon.

Pierre feigns slumber, but from shaded, half-closed eyes intently watches his son.

An alarm-clock sounds the morning hour of five. Paul starts, shivers, tiptoes to the door and tries the catch. He furtively looks at the transom, behind room furniture, and suspended clothing. Peering under both cots, he shrinks from reflected shadows. Then gazing confidingly at the paternal face, Paul snuffs out the candle, and with childish a.s.surance snuggles down on his father's arm.

Hours pa.s.s before Pierre Lanier ventures to rise. He hesitates to move the hunted, distracted head. It seems heartless cruelty to risk disturbing this wearied child.

Memories of Paul's trusting, boyish faith come to mind. Pierre lives over again in swift review years of a misspent past. With comprehensive view of its wasted, perverted chances, the broad compa.s.s of desolating and desolated perspective is horrible.

Insensible of that relaxed weight upon his cramped arm, this guilty wretch hardly can suppress a groan. There is limit to conscious endurance. At this point Pierre looks toward the ceiling. Such upward glance slightly relaxes his tense strain. The relief is suggestive.

Pierre gently strokes Paul's temples, and in low tones says: "In this begrimed, blood-stained face I behold another boyish image, marred by paternal influence."

A ray of light steals through the transom, falling athwart that upturned youthful brow. Pierre smiles almost credulously. How deep that spirit sigh!

More habitual concern soon is felt. Where is Paul's pearl-handled dagger? How came he in possession of this new weapon? What mean these blood-stains and bedraggled clothes? Was tragic pose at time of Pierre's startled awakening suggestive of some murderous a.s.sault by the crazed Paul?

Absorbed in other emotions, Pierre had given no heed to these weighty problems. Powerless to enforce counsels of his own experienced craft, Pierre now and then lapsed into vaguely sentimental moods.

Slowly withdrawing that benumbed arm, Pierre noiselessly arises from the cot. He examines the dagger and mutters: "It is new and of English make!

There is no other clew. Has some additional danger been incurred?"

Pierre can but wait, powerless to avert or modify any impending crisis.

It will avail nothing to catechise the secretive Paul, who is garrulous upon irrelevant hallucinations only.

During that day and the following night Paul slept, waking only once, about nine o'clock in the evening. This was his usual hour for trip up the Thames. Paul stared around sleepily, looked at his watch, dubiously scanned the new dagger, slowly sank back and slept on until morning.

At seven Paul awoke with ravenous appet.i.te. Pierre had prepared a substantial meal. This the hungry youth devoured with relish.

After breakfast Paul listlessly moved about the room. Spying in a small mirror his dirty, blood-besmeared face and matted hair, Paul starts backward, grasps the new weapon, stabs at that mirrored reflection, stares about wildly, and with maniacal yell bolts for the bas.e.m.e.nt door.

To intercept this rash break, Pierre grasps his son about the waist, throwing him heavily upon the stone floor. Paul's writhing twists cannot loosen that hold. His muttering threats and curses move not Pierre's stern resolve. Frothing at the lips, Paul struggles desperately. He attempts to yell, but his voice weakens into gurglings. The neck relaxes and he sinks back unconscious.

Pierre loosens his hold. Bending over, he feels the pulse. Pressing his ear upon Paul's breast, he listens for heartbeats. Such look of blank despair and awful groan!

There is a noise on the stairs. Pierre heeds it not. He gazes at his son, his sight darkens, and bewildering rumblings are heard. Pierre gropes about blindly, stumbling across Paul's unconscious form.

The knocking grows louder, then the catch is forced, and five uniformed officials crowd through that cellar door.

CHAPTER XXII

SIR DONALD'S "FIND"

All seems calm at Northfield. Frictionless domestic appointments hint not the sentient pulsing of care.

Surrounded by every comfort, the idolized recipient of fatherly and brotherly attentions, Esther grows still more pensive. Many surprises are planned for her diversion. Esther tries hard to be pleased, but it is apparent that her thoughts are elsewhere.

Servants patrol the Northfield mansion grounds. There are daily and nightly watches along the sh.o.r.es of the lake. London communications report no changes in Lanier habits. Pierre seldom leaves that cellar room. Paul keeps up his night tableaus on the Thames.

To some vigorous suggestions of Charles, Sir Donald replies: "It is not prudent to hasten any crisis. Immature exposure would be unwise. None of the circ.u.mstances of this strange infatuation are legally conclusive of Lanier guilt. Without more direct proofs, such cogent evidence would not be even admissible.

"How establish the 'corpus delicti'? Granted that either Oswald or Alice had been murdered, Paul's significant craze is legally irrelevant. Other bodies may have found quietus in Thames depths.

"The facts in possession of London bureau are incompetent to establish guilty connivance of either Lanier in any crime except those a.s.saults on the Dodges in Calcutta.

"Though morally certain that these were prompted through fear of Dodge revelations, yet missing links render Lanier disguises, with suggestive craft and crazes, judicially meaningless.

"Aided by proof of either death and by sworn evidence of William Dodge, all irrelevant, circ.u.mstantial happenings would become powerfully coherent. I am sure of both, but can prove neither. I would stint neither labor nor cost to procure competent evidence of Alice Webster's death at the hands of Paul Lanier. Without other justification than yet afforded, I may not betray the Dodge confidence. No motive shall prompt disclosures as to Oswald Langdon.

"However, there need be no present qualms about concealment in the Dodge matter. Upon trial of either Lanier for murder of Alice Webster, neither Esther nor I would be heard to testify about the Dodge confession. This is inadmissible hearsay. In an action against these three villains growing out of that vile conspiracy to coerce this unhappy girl into an obnoxious marriage, the Paris hospital confession might be admissible, but such reckoning now would be purposeless.

"The only way is to continue present shadowings and defensive precautions, while awaiting some decisive clews to missing links in this elusive chain."

Sir Donald's conscience is not clear as to this waiting game. The risk to innocent parties from Paul's crazed fancies and murderous tendencies is serious, while any possible disclosures are uncertain. There is danger that Paul's pa.s.sionate tempers may involve him in some altercation. Such might result in his death.

Then Oswald Langdon's vindication would be remotely doubtful, and Esther's hopes--there always is a break at this point in Sir Donald's musings.

To either follow or abandon present tactics is dangerous. It weighs upon Sir Donald's troubled consciousness that on his chosen line of action hangs Esther's hopes, with this contingent menace.

An unexpected incident checks Esther's growing pensiveness.

Sir Donald has become more worried. It seems impossible to divert his daughter's mind from the sorrowful infatuation.

Revolving in his troubled thoughts ways to relieve these despondent moods, Sir Donald is returning from a trip to the station. There seems no alternative but to await the uncertain issues of Lanier exposures.

His horse shies at a moving bush by the roadside. A scared face peers through the foliage. With impulsive kindness he stops and speaks a.s.suringly to this juvenile spy.

Losing her fright, the little girl takes a few steps toward the smiling horseman, then stands shyly mute, awaiting more persuasive speech.

Interested and charmed, Sir Donald dismounts, and fondling the straggling curls, inquires about the little one's name, home, and age.

These are given with innocent candor, but Sir Donald is not familiar with "Just-Bessie-That's-All," or "Granny." Having quite thorough knowledge of places within several miles of Northfield, he never has heard about the "lane up by the meadow, down by the woods."

The little stranger has no apparent idea of what "Papa" or "Mamma"

signifies. Personal acquaintance seems limited to "Granny" and "Naughty-d.i.c.k-Pulls-Bessie's-Hair."

"Five years old next summer" is quite definite. To the question, "How did my little Bessie get here?" she looks scared, and replies, "Bessie hanged on!"

Concluding that this four-year-old had clung to the rear of some pa.s.sing vehicle, and then dropped off, without the driver's knowledge, Sir Donald will take her to his home and make proper inquiry for "Granny."

Placing the hatless, barefooted tot before him on the spirited horse, he is soon at the Northfield mansion.

The child eats ravenously. It is evident some considerable time elapsed between that unbidden ride and queer "find."