Pepper paced up and down the faded carpet, his hands behind his back, a plodding, burdened figure.
"Have you any—doubts left?" he asked, suddenly.
"Doubts!" echoed Lane, vaguely.
"Yes—doubts. You're like most of these mothers and fathers.... You couldn't believe. You made excuses for the smoke—saying there was no fire."
"No more doubts, alas!... My God! I saw," burst out Lane.
"All right. Buck up now. It's something to be sure.... You've overdone your strength. You look...."
"Pepper, do me a favor," interposed Lane, as he made for the door. "Get me an axe and leave it here in your rooms. In case I want to break in on those fellows some time—quick—I'll have it ready."
"Sure, I'll get you anything. And I want to be around when you butt in on them."
"That's up to you. Good-bye now. I'll run in to-morrow if I'm up to it."
Lane went home, his mind in a tumult. His mother had just discovered that he had not slept in his bed, and was greatly relieved to see him. Breakfast was waiting, and after partaking of it Lane felt somewhat better. His mother appeared more than usually sombre. Worry was killing her.