e of Ida Wade's death, to dwell on such
thoughts disturbed and terrified him. He did not dare to look long in
that direction. Conscience, remorse, repentance, all these had been keen
enough at first, but he had so persistently kicked against the pricks
that little by little he had ceased to feel them at all.

Then an immense and overwhelming terror seized upon him. Was there
nothing, then--nothing left which he could lay hold of to save him? He
knew that he could not deliver himself by his own exertions. Religion
could not help him, he had killed his father, estranged the girl he
might have loved, outraged the world, and at a single breath blighted
the fine innate purity of his early years. It was as if he had entered
into his life in the world as into some vast labyrinth, wandering on
aimlessly, flinging from him one by one the threads, the clues, that
might have led him again to a safe exit, going down deeper and deeper
until, when near the centre, he had suddenly felt the presence of the
brute, had heard its loathsome muttering growl, had at last seen it far
down at the end of a passage, dimly and in a dark shadow; terrified, he
had started back, looking wildly about for any avenue of escape,
searching with frantic haste and eagerness for any one of those clues he
had so carelessly cast from him, realizing that without such guidance he
would inevitably tend down again to that fatal central place where the
brute had its lair.

There was nothing, nothing. He clearly saw the fate toward which he was
hurrying; it was not too late to save himself if he only could find
help, but he could find _no_ help. His terror increased almost to
hysteria. It was one of those dreadful moments that men sometimes
undergo that must be met alone, and that when past, remain in the memory
for all time; a glimpse far down into the springs and wheels of life; a
glimpse that does not come often lest the reason brought to the edge of
the fearful gulf should grow dizzy at the sight, and reeling, topple
headlong.

But suddenly Vandover rose to his feet, the tears came to his eyes, and
with a long breath he exclaimed: "Thank God for it!" He grew calmer in a
moment, the crisis had passed, he had found a clue beneath his groping
fingers.

He had remembered his art, turning to it instinctively as he always did
when greatly moved. This was the one good thing that yet survived. It
was the strongest side of him; it would be the last to go; he felt it