Pierre waits until the second morning, then, thoroughly disguised, goes out to look for Paul. Up and down the Thames, from the boathouse to a point miles above the rustic seat, this search is continued that day and the following night without avail. Guarded inquiry at police headquarters fails to disclose any clew.
Pierre's anxiety becomes so great that he relaxes habitual craft of a lifetime in his solicitude for Paul's safety. Pierre sees this poor, helpless, disordered child in want, bruised, and bleeding, calling in vain for his father's help. Paul is a little, trusting, crying, helpless lad again, but without that father's providing or protecting care.
Just before day of the fourth night after Paul's strange disappearance Pierre is aroused from sleep by deep, guttural sounds. He is petrified at the sight!
Black, uncombed hair in tangled disorder, blood-stains on face, hands, and bedraggled clothing, brandishing a new long-bladed dagger, stands Paul, staring into vacancy, incoherently muttering.
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 assurance snuggles down on his father's arm.
Hours pass 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 compass 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.