That proceedings were about to be commenced against him Pierre had no doubt. Since his arrest a settled conviction that he was now within the coils of justice had been always present. Paul's hopeless derangement seemed to unnerve that cold-tempered, persistent will.
Pierre never had planned crime without some reference to the future of his only son. All heartless scheming and precautions had tended to unrest, culminating in Paul's dreadful disorder. Possibly justice longer might be impeded, but its course would be none the less sure and crushing.
Old religious precepts, forgotten in tense devotion to criminal purposes, come to mind. Odd sentimental moods occasionally are felt. Pierre keeps thinking about his own responsibility for Paul's awful state. In the solitude of his cell, he mutters:
"That inherited taint which, through soothing specific of quiet living, for two generations lay dormant, now spreads its ravages within Paul's distracted brain. All this is the work of one who knew of that mental disorder in maternal line, yet heeding not, nor giving care to its restraint or healing, has slain his boy's reason through tenacious holding to the fruits of crime.
"Paul's mother gave her life for his, yet I, his father, who tenderly reared the motherless babe through early childhood, and proudly looked upon maturing growth, sacrificed all upon the flameless altar of consuming greed."
At times Pierre's remorse is horrible. He thinks not of defrauded, murdered ward. Paul's victims raise no spectral hands of menace. To Pierre all other crimes shrink aghast at this most heinous incarnation of a father's guilt. He becomes indifferent to his own life. In despairing solicitude, he exclaims:
"Only that some relief come to that distracted head I gladly would pay the penalties of all my crimes!"
This desperate man even beseeches heaven for his son's relief. He prays not for himself, nor cares for personal deliverance. In all-absorbing concern for the crazed Paul, he dares appeal to divine compassion, without thought of self or pardon. Strange infatuation! Pierre grows hopeful, and feels some queer sense of grateful obligation. He slowly gropes and stumbles, while tenaciously turning his soul's blind orbs toward this dimly glimmering yet hopeful ray. Pierre faintly recollects the account of the "Gadirean" tenant of the tombs.
"Paul's case is not so serious as that, but who will pity my poor crazed boy?"
Pierre thinks of Sir Donald Randolph. This high-principled champion of the defrauded, murdered Alice Webster is Pierre's and Paul's uncompromising pursuer. That any other had set or kept in operation such tireless shadowings Pierre has no thought. This man can be neither cajoled nor bribed, yet may soften at frank avowal or direct appeal.