ly sprained. He continues down the shore, but moves
slowly. The boat and Paul are out of sight.

There is return of cautious fear. When scrambling back from the yawning
depths, Pierre caught sight of a face partly screened by foliage of
near bushes. He is startled. With certainty that his son has passed out
of sight, the father now seeks to elude this mute intruder. Moving
downstream, each step causing a groan, he is aware that this spy is
following him, but at a cautious pace. After painful, harassed hours,
this limping form, slowly descending those rickety cellar stairs, enters
at a low opening, and totally collapsing, falls upon the stone floor.

The dim twilight is streaming through barred cellar transom when Pierre
Lanier opens his eyes from that long swoon. It is several minutes before
he vaguely comprehends what has happened. Gradually the situation dawns
upon his mind. Recalling his weaned entrance at the cellar door and
habitual testing of its catch, his memory is thereafter a blank. He
mutters:

"How came I on Paul's cot? Why such comfortable arrangement of pillows
and quilts? What means that array of bottles, cups, saucers, and glasses
on the chair at my head? Can it be that I am in hospital ward?"

Pierre starts up with fright, stares wildly, and settles back with a
groan. His leg pains terribly. Removing the light coverlid, he sees that
the foot and ankle are tightly bandaged. Again he mutters: "There is
odor of liniment! Who but an expert could have so neatly sewed those
bands? Surely this is our own room. Has a doctor called and performed
professional service? Where is Paul?"

By much effort Pierre gets up and staggers to the transom. The outside
scenery is familiar. The door is locked. Turning the catch, he looks out
and up the stairs, but sees no one. With puzzled expression he says:
"Everything belonging to our room and wardrobe is here except Paul's
usual London disguise. Paul must be out on some venturesome craze!"

Gradually Pierre's habitual craft returns. Whatever happens he must keep
cool. Taking a discreet bracer of brandy and examining his pistols,
Pierre lies down on the cot. There are toothsome eatables on the table.
These he now devours with ravenous relish, but partakes sparingly of the
tempting liquors. Between set teeth Pierre says: "There must be
self-control and iron nerves. I will not trust any fictitious strength.
Only a steady brain and hand tensely nerved by my cold-tempered ye