"He's goin' home, in course," muttered the man. "I'll jest light out and come in ahead." And he plunged down a by street and went swiftly over the bridge; but not alone.
A second dark form had been lurking in the vicinity of "Old Forty's," the form of a boy, who glided through the dark, at the heels of the other, like a spirit.
"He is going wrong," thought this shadow, discontentedly. "Somehow I'm sure of it; I'm shadowing the wrong party; but—I'm obeying instructions." And pursued and pursuer crossed the bridge and turned their steps toward Mapleton.
Meantime, John Burrill, reeling, singing snatches of low songs, and stopping sometimes to rest and assure himself that all the landmarks are there, pursues his way toward Doctor Heath's cottage.
It is situated on the outskirts of the town; the way is long, the night dark, the wind boisterous, and the way lonely. It is after ten o'clock.
Later—nearly two hours later, Frank Lamotte, driven by his demon of unrest, is pacing his room, feverish and fierce, when his door opens softly, a white, haggard face looks in, a hoarse voice articulates, "Frank, for God's sake, for your own sake, come with me quick!"
Frank Lamotte turns swiftly, angrily. He is about to speak, when something catches his eye, fixes it in horror, and causes him to gasp out, pointing with one shaking finger.
"Ah-h-h! what is that?"
"It is the Family Honor!" came the hissing answer. "Come, I tell you."
And like a man in a nightmare, Frank Lamotte obeys.