"No, Dad--no!" Arthur shot to his feet. "I don't believe it. I've never believed it. I know, as any sane man would know, that you are neither a vampire nor a murderer. You know it, too; and Cecilia knew it, only she was mad. "That family rot is dispelled, Father. This is a civilized century. Belief in vampirism is sheer lunacy. Wh-why, it's too absurd even to think about!" "You have the enthusiasm of youth," said his father, in a rather tired voice. "But have you not heard the legend?" Arthur stepped back instinctively. He moistened his lips, for their dryness might crack them. "The--legend?" He said the word in a curious hush of awed softness, as he had heard his Aunt Cecilia say it many times before. "That awful legend that you----" "That I _eat_ my children?" "Oh, God, Father!" Arthur went to his knees as a cry burst through his lips. "Dad, that--that's ghastly! We must forget Cecilia's ravings." "You are affected, then?" asked Doctor Duryea bitterly. "Affected? Certainly I'm affected, but only as I should be at such an accusation. Cecilia was mad, I tell you. Those books she showed me years ago, and those folk-tales of vampires and ghouls--they burned into my infantile mind like acid. They haunted me day and night in my youth, and caused me to hate you worse than death itself. "But in Heaven's name, Father, I've outgrown those things as I have outgrown my clothes. I'm a man now; do you understand that? A man, with a man's sense of logic." "Yes, I understand." Henry Duryea threw his cigar into the fireplace, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "We shall forget Cecilia," he said. "As I told you in my letter, I have rented a lodge in Maine where we can go to be alone for the rest of the summer. We'll get in some fishing and hiking and perhaps some hunting. But first, Arthur, I must be sure in my own mind that you are sure in yours. I must be sure you won't bar your door against me at night, and sleep with a loaded revolver at your elbow. I must be sure that you're not afraid of going up there alone with me, and dying----" His voice ended abruptly, as if an age-long dread had taken hold of it. His son's face was waxen, with sweat standing out like pearls on his brow. He said nothing, but his eyes were filled with questions which his lips could not put into words. His own hand touched his father's, and tightened over it. Henry Duryea drew his hand away. "I'm sorry," he said, and his eyes looked straight over Arthur's lowered head. "This thing must be thrashed out now. I believe you when you say that you discredit Cecilia's stories, but for a sake greater than sanity I must tell you the truth behind the legend--and believe me, Arthur; there is a truth!" * * * * * He climbed to his feet and walked to the window which looked out over the street below. For a moment he gazed into space, silent. Then he turned and looked down at his son.