e had
walked for hours in vain, not daring to make inquiries; and then, when
presently he had returned, he had found her in her bedroom, evidently
under the stress of a great emotion. There was a look of unholy joy in
her eyes, and she had uttered wild words. He could not understand them
then, but he understood now. His mother, wrought up almost to a pitch
of insanity, roused to hatred of Wilson, not only because of what he
had done to him but of what he had said about her, and madly thinking
that she was going to help him, had gone out and committed this deed.

Of course, there were many things he could not explain; but the grim
logic of facts stared him in the face, and they explained the
unnameable fear which had come into his heart, the black shadow which
had rested upon everything.

In a way, he was almost glad that they had apprehended him; and there
in the silence he made a vow that, whatever should happen, he must see
to it that no suspicion should ever rest upon her. Evidently she had
not been in the mind of the officials at all. No one would suspect
that she had not gone to bed when she left him. He was the only one
who knew, and he must guard the secret at whatever cost.

He knew something of the course of the procedure which would be taken
against him. Whether he were committed for trial or not--ay, whether
any jury might find him guilty or not, he must say nothing, and do
nothing, which should have the slightest tendency to connect her with
this terrible thing.

The meaning of the tragedy itself did not appeal to him. The fact that
Wilson, the man who through the long years had been his enemy--yes, and
his rival, too--was dead did not appeal to him. The ghastliness of the
tragedy was not what he thought about at all. Ever and always his mind
reverted to his mother. She must be saved.

He had wondered the night before whether she were quite sane, and he
wondered now; but that did not matter. Under no conceivable
circumstances must the thoughts of men be directed to her!

But what should he do? He did not want to die; he hated the very
thought of death. He remembered, too, the smile that Mary Bolitho had
given him when last they met. He thought of the hopes she had inspired
in his heart, of the dreams which had made the world beautiful. That
was all over now. His mother had made everything impossible. But
whatever she had done, she had done out of love for him, and he could
not think