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Gilder scrupulously followed the directions of the PoliceInspector. Uneasily, he had remained in the library until theallotted time was elapsed. He fidgeted from place to place, hismind heavy with distress under the shadow that threatened toblight the life of his cherished son. Finally, with a sense ofrelief he put out the lights and went to his chamber. But he didnot follow the further directions given him, for he was notminded to go to bed. Instead, he drew the curtains closely tomake sure that no gleam of light could pass them, and then satwith a cigar between his lips, which he did not smoke, thoughfrom time to time he was at pains to light it. His thoughts weremost with his son, and ever as he thought of Dick, his fury waxedagainst the woman who had enmeshed the boy in her plotting forvengeance on himself. And into his thoughts now crept a doubt,one that alarmed his sense of justice. It occurred to him thatthis woman could not have thus nourished a plan for retributionthrough the years unless, indeed, she had been insane, even as hehad claimed--or innocent! The idea was appalling. He could notbear to admit the possibility of having been the involuntaryinflicter of such wrong as to send the girl to prison for anoffense she had not committed. He rejected the suggestion, butit persisted. He knew the clean, wholesome nature of his son.It seemed to him incredible that the boy could have thus givenhis heart to one altogether undeserving. A horrible suspicionthat he had misjudged Mary Turner crept into his brain, and wouldnot out. He fought it with all the strength of him, and that wasmuch, but ever it abode there. He turned for comfort to thethings Burke had said. The woman was a crook, and there was anend of it. Her ruse of spoliation within the law was evidence ofher shrewdness, nothing more.Mary Turner herself, too, was in a condition utterly wretched,and for the same cause--Dick Gilder. That source of the father'ssuffering was hers as well. She had won her ambition of years,revenge on the man who had sent her to prison. And now the joyof it was a torture, for the puppet of her plans, the son, hadsuddenly become the chief thing in her life. She had taken itfor granted that he would leave her after he came to know thather marriage to him was only a device to bring shame on hisfather. Instead, he loved her. That fact seemed the secret ofher distress. He loved her. More, he dared believe, and toassert boldly, that she loved him. Had he acted otherwise, thematter would have been simple enough.... But he loved her, lovedher still, though he knew the shame that had clouded her life,knew the motive that had led her to accept him as a husband.More--by a sublime audacity, he declared that she loved him.There came a thrill in her heart each time she thought ofthat--that she loved him. The idea was monstrous, of course, andyet---- Here, as always, she broke off, a hot flush blazing inher cheeks.... Nevertheless, such curious fancies pursued herthrough the hours. She strove her mightiest to rid herself ofthem, but in vain. Ever they persisted. She sought to oust themby thinking of any one else, of Aggie, of Joe. There at last wassatisfaction. Her interference between the man who had saved herlife and the temptation of the English crook had prevented adangerous venture, which might have meant ruin to the one whomshe esteemed for his devotion to her, if for no other reason. Atleast, she had kept him from the outrageous folly of an ordinaryburglary.

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Whatever had been her first purpose of using him only as aninstrument through which to strike against his father, whatevermight be her present plan of eliminating him from her life in thefuture, he still was sure that she had grown to know a real andlasting affection for himself. He remembered startled glancesfrom the violet eyes, caught unawares, and the music of her voicein rare instants, and these told him that love for him stirred,even though it might as yet be but faintly, in her heart.Out of that fact, he drew an immediate comfort in this period ofhis misery. Nevertheless, his anguish was a racking one. Hegrew older visibly in the night and the day. There creptsuddenly lines of new feeling into his face, and, too, lines ofnew strength. The boy died in that time; the man was born, cameforth in the full of his steadfastness and his courage, and hislove.The father suffered with the son. He was a proud man, intenselygratified over the commanding position to which he had achievedin the commercial world, proud of his business integrity, of hisstanding in the community as a leader, proud of his socialposition, proud most of all of the son whom he so loved. Now,this hideous disaster threatened his pride at every turn--worse,it threatened the one person in the world whom he really loved.Most fathers would have stormed at the boy when pleading failed,would have given commands with harshness, would have menaced therecalcitrant with disinheritance. Edward Gilder did none ofthese things, though his heart was sorely wounded. He loved hisson too much to contemplate making more evil for the lad by anyestrangement between them. Yet he felt that the matter could notsafely be left in the hands of Dick himself. He realized thathis son loved the woman--nor could he wonder much at that. Hiskeen eyes had perceived Mary Turner's graces of form, herloveliness of face. He had apprehended, too, in some measure atleast, the fineness of her mental fiber and the capacities of herheart. Deep within him, denied any outlet, he knew there lurkeda curious, subtle sympathy for the girl in her scheme of revengeagainst himself. Her persistent striving toward the object ofher ambition was something he could understand, since the likething in different guise had been back of his own businesssuccess. He would not let the idea rise to the surface ofconsciousness, for he still refused to believe that Mary Turnerhad suffered at his hand unjustly. He would think of her asnothing else than a vile creature, who had caught his son in thetoils of her beauty and charm, for the purpose of eventuallymaking money out of the intrigue.Gilder, in his library this night, was pacing impatiently to andfro, eagerly listening for the sound of his son's return to thehouse. He had been the guest of honor that night at an importantmeeting of the Civic Committee, and he had spoken with his usualclarity and earnestness in spite of the trouble that beset him.Now, however, the regeneration of the city was far from histhought, and his sole concern was with the regeneration of alife, that of his son, which bade fair to be ruined by the wilesof a wicked woman. He was anxious for the coming of Dick, towhom he would make one more appeal. If that should fail--well,he must use the influences at his command to secure the forcibleparting of the adventuress from his son.The room in which he paced to and fro was of a solid dignity,well fitted to serve as an environment for its owner. It wasvery large, and lofty. There was massiveness in the desk thatstood opposite the hall door, near a window. This particularwindow itself was huge, high, jutting in octagonal, with leadedpanes. In addition, there was a great fireplace set with tiles,around which was woodwork elaborately carved, the fruit ofpatient questing abroad. On the walls were hung some pieces oftapestry, where there were not bookcases. Over the octagonalwindow, too, such draperies fell in stately lines. Now, as themagnate paced back and forth, there was only a gentle light inthe room, from a reading-lamp on his desk. The huge chandelierwas unlighted.... It was even as Gilder, in an increasingirritation over the delay, had thrown himself down on a couchwhich stood just a little way within an alcove, that he heard theouter door open and shut. He sprang up with an ejaculation ofsatisfaction.The father was impressed of a sudden with the fact that, whilethis affair was of supreme import to himself, it was, after all,of still greater significance to his son. To himself, the chiefconcerns were of the worldly kind. To this boy, the vital thingwas something deeper, something of the heart: for, however absurdhis feeling, the truth remained that he loved the woman. Yes, itwas the son's name that Mary Turner had taken, as well as that ofhis father. In the case of the son, she had taken not only hisname, but his very life. Yes, it was, indeed, Dick's tragedy.Whatever he, the father, might feel, the son was, after all, moreaffected. He must suffer more, must lose more, must pay morewith happiness for his folly.Gilder looked at his son with a strange, new respect, but hecould not let the situation go without protest, protest of themost vehement."Dick," he cried, and his big voice was shaken a little by theforce of his emotion; "boy, you are all I have in the world. Youwill have to free yourself from this woman somehow." He stoodvery erect, staring steadfastly out of his clear gray eyes intothose of his son. His heavy face was rigid with feeling; thecoarse mouth bent slightly in a smile of troubled fondness, as headded more softly: "You owe me that much."The son's eyes met his father's freely. There was respect inthem, and affection, but there was something else, too, somethingthe older man recognized as beyond his control. He spokegravely, with a deliberate conviction.