ade must be one of absolute finality.

"What I am doing is a grave thing," he told himself over and over. "An
unscrupulous man would do it in a flash; a weak man might be afraid of
it. I must be neither unscrupulous nor cowardly; I must be just. And
is not justice with me? Would I not be punishing the guilty, would I
not be in a position to reward Garth Conway for a life of faithful
service, would I not be justified in protecting my own interests, the
interests of my wife and daughter?"

Already, unconsciously, he was seeking to discover for his groping mind
the arguments which would acquit him in his own judgment and justify
him.

"I hate him," he muttered, "God knows I hate him. But is that the
reason I am striking at him? I should be wrong if for purely personal
motives I sought to wreck vengeance upon him. But he is guilty, as
guilty as hell! It would not be vengeance, it would be retribution. I
should but be taking into my hands the work which God had set at my
fingers' ends."

His problem instead of clarifying became complicated with involved
motives. He told himself grimly that the thing which he had begun was
just, merely just. If the courts of law did what he was doing and
stopped with it men's voices would cry out against a retribution gone
blind and decrepit, maudlin with mercy.

He went once to his safe in the corner, took out a document and stood
looking at it thoughtfully for a long time. Finally he replaced it.

"I can ruin him, I can break him utterly," he said slowly. "I can
wrest from him the thing which he took brutally with bloody hands.
Because I am to profit where he loses must I hold back? The law may
never reach him. Is it right then that he should go unpunished? The
fortune which one day I shall leave to Wanda will be either swelled or
diminished as I decide. Have I the right to draw back now?"

The day dragged on, the conflict within the man's soul continued.
Until noon he was in his study. At the dinner table he was silent,
morose, and ate little. He made no comment upon Wanda's absence;
perhaps he did not notice it. Mrs. Leland, understanding readily that
Wayne Shandon's return had its bearing upon her husband's heavy mood,
found little to say. She could only hope wistfully that for a little
Wayne would come to the house seldom, that Martin would grow used to
having him in the neighbourhood, and that in the end he would content
himself with ignoring the man whom s