As he walked on in the darkness, he had no knowledge of his destination. He swept on and on, pursued by dreadful thoughts.
On and on through the blackness.... No moon ... a wet wind blowing ... on and on....
He came to a bridge which crossed a culvert. No water flowed under it. But down the road which led through the Glen was another bridge, and beneath it a deep, still pool.
With the thought of that deep and quiet pool came momentary relief from the horrors which had hounded him. It would be easy. A second’s struggle. Then everything over. Peace. No fears. No dread of the future....
It seemed a long time after, that, leaning against the buttress of the bridge, he heard, with increasing clearness, the sound of boys’ voices in the dark.
He drew back among the shadows. It was Sandy and Arthur. Not three feet away from him—passing.
“Well, of course, Mr. Follette is just a man,” Sandy was saying.
“Maybe he is,” Arthur spoke earnestly, “but I don’t know. There’s something about him——”
He paused.
“Go on,” Sandy urged.