Now that the plunge had been taken and he had been made to understand
that he must henceforth reckon with a base and cowardly under-self which
would not stop short of the most heinous crime, he told himself that he
must have time to think--to plan.

Caring nothing for its roughness, and scarcely noting the direction in
which it was leading him, he followed the country road in its winding
descent into a valley forest of oaks. After an hour of aimless tramping
he began to have occasional near-hand glimpses of the lake; and a little
farther along he came out upon the main-travelled road leading to the
summer-resort hotel at the head of De Soto Bay.

Still without any definite purpose in mind he pushed on, and upon
reaching the hotel he went in and registered for a room. The luncheon
hour was past, but not even the long tramp had given him an appetite.
Choosing the quietest corner of the lake-facing veranda he tried to
smoke; but the tobacco had lost its flavor, and a longing for completer
solitude drove him to his room. Here he drew the window shades and lay
down, deliberately wishing that he might fall asleep and wake in some
less poignant world; and since the week of strife had been cutting
deeply into the nights, the first half of the wish presently came true.
While the poignancies were still asserting themselves acutely, sleep
stole upon him, and when he awoke it was evening and a cheerful clamor
in the dining-room beneath told him that it was dinner-time.

It is a trite saying that many a gulf, seemingly impassable, has been
safely bridged in sleep. Bathed, refreshed and with the tramping stains
removed, Griswold went down to dinner with the lost appetite regained. A
leisurely hour spent in the restorative atmosphere of the well-filled
dining-room added its uplift, and at the end of it the troublesome
perplexities and paradoxes had withdrawn--at least far enough so that
they could be held in the artistic perspective. Afterward, during the
cigar-smoking on the cool veranda, he struck out his plan. In the
morning he would send in town to Mrs. Holcomb for a few necessaries, and
telephone to Raymer. After which, he would try what a fallow day or two
would do for him; an interval in which he could weigh and measure and
think, and possibly recover the lost sense of proportion.

As the plan was conceived, so it was carried out. Early on the following
day he sent a note to Mrs. Holcomb by one of the Inn employees; but the