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?"