ul, he asks: "What time is it,
Paul?"

With much sympathy, Paul replies: "I found you unconscious this morning
lying on the cellar floor. I carried you to the cot, and from
involuntary movements discovered the sprained ankle. After stitching on
the saturated bandages, I brought out refreshments and liquors. You did
not use these, but continued unconscious, responding only in mutterings.
I watched all day until evening, and then went out a few minutes for
some needed provisions." No reference was made to the previous night's
experiences.

Much relieved, Pierre shows great appreciation of his boy's kindly
interest.

Paul is pleased at these grateful comments. He now and then glances at
his watch. Nervously walking to the door, he returns and sits down by
his father's side. With much filial solicitude he says:

"Father, you should never venture out on late night watches. This attack
was the result of last night's vigil.

"You are getting older, father, and can't stand night work. It will
never do to risk such an attack at night. I cannot bear the thought of
sleeping while you are wandering about London, liable to be paralyzed at
any moment in some dark alley. I need my father's counsels too badly to
risk losing him through such rash exposure."

Growing excited, Paul grasps his dagger, and glowering at the shrinking,
reclining form, dramatically waves the glistening blade as he utters the
injunction:

"Never go out again at night in London!"

Cowed by this unexpected pose and threat, Pierre Lanier promises to stay
in nights.

"I know my dear son is right! My own Paul always will care for his poor
old father!"

Paul grows quiet. With shamefaced, submissive mien he sheathes the thin,
gleaming blade. Then follow suppressed sobs and hysterical assurances of
future obedience.

With childish penitence this hardened youth, steeped in murderous guilt
and crazed by tragic memories almost to the point of irresponsible
parricide, hiding his face upon his father's breast, cries himself to
sleep.

CHAPTER XX

THE CONFERENCE

Their extended visits abroad endear Sir Donald's and Esther's home
memories. Northfield seems both haven and rose-scented bower of rest.

Yet there are many pensive reflections. Over brightest views often
settle shadows of tragic retrospect.

Neither Sir Donald nor Esther sees cleared future earthly prospects.
Both are uncertain as to issues in which each feels vital interest.

Since