Schuyler interrupted, quickly. Parks nodded. "Yes, sir. The lady." Schuyler said, eyes closing a little: "A lady." "Well, send her--" Then, as Parks started to go: "No, tell her I'm not here." "Very well, sir." Again Parks started to leave the room; again Schuyler stopped him. "Wait. I've changed my mind. I'll see her." He reached for the decanter of brandy, and poured into one of the glasses an even inch of the amber liquor. He raised the glass to his lips; but set it down again untasted; for Parks had started to speak again. "Also there's a van here for your wife's--pardon me, for Mrs. Schuyler's furniture and trunks." Schuyler's brows contracted; there was the slightest suggestion of a quiver at lip-ends. Then, after a long, long pause, he replied: "Well, let them take all that she selected.... And Parks." "Yes, sir?" "I won't see the lady after all." Parks nodded, and quietly withdrew. Left alone, Schuyler for some moments sat silent and motionless before his desk. But nowadays, he could not sit motionless for long. There was that inside his brain--inside his soul-- which would not let him. It kept him moving--moving--moving, without rest, without cessation; even as he had paced the deck of the liner, on that other morning, almost until the day had come to claim again from the night that which was its own. Of a sudden he rose from his chair. Swift strides took him across the room. Quickly, nervously, he drew back the curtain from the window.... He could see, beneath him in the street, the van that had come for the belongings of his wife--of the woman who had borne him his child--the child which he had not seen since, upon the dock, she had waved him farewell. John Schuyler had wandered into the Unknown. Unwillingly, knowing full well what he was doing, but powerless to help--powerless to prevent--he had gone.... Sometimes it did not seem real to him. It was a nightmare-- a horrid, horrible, awful, grewsome, rotten dream, a dream that brought to his nostrils a stench--to his soul a coldness unutterable--a coldness beside which that of death might seem a grateful warmth.... He would wake sometimes from his dreams, a cold sweat enveloping him like a pall, a scream upon his lips.... And then, again--He did not understand. He could not understand. It was hopeless, utterly, utterly hopeless.... Why should such things be? How could such things be? There was a God, presumably. Presumably, that God was good.... There was no logic in it--no reason in it.... What did it all mean? "Why?" he asked himself, again and again, and yet again. "Why?" ... There had been no answer.... He watched the van load. He watched the heavy horses throw themselves into the traces, as the whip fell across their flanks. He watched the van slowly gather momentum. He watched it rumble heavily down the sodden asphalt.... At length it turned the corner....