He thought of his child, his little Clinton, and wondered how large he was, and if he was strong and shapely. He had not felt the need of affection or kindness during his success. Bah! how he hated that word! But now he thought that he would almost give his miserable life for the touch of his child’s arms around his neck and the prattle of an innocent voice in his ear. “She will teach him to hate me now,” he thought, forgetting what little cause the child could have for loving him. And with that thought came a return of Peter’s words: “She might be glad to be rid of you.” Strange that the thought should give him pain. His only chance for safety lay in the hope that he could impose on this innocent girl, and that she should hate him. But he dreaded the ordeal. He had never professed to love Fanny. Their marriage had been purely one of convenience on both sides. But he had loved Norine as well as one of his selfish nature could love, and now, with the memory of her innocent love and her pride in him, there came a great longing for a return of her affection. It was impossible. He knew that his very safety demanded that it should be so. And yet his old love for her, or what he termed his love, returned to him with its old force; and if he could have had his choice, he would gladly have given up his success, gladly have given his fortune and everything, for a return to the little cottage among the Pennsylvania mountains and to Norine. Now that it could not gladden any one’s heart, now when it could bring no joy to him or any one else, he really loved, and, for a wonder, loved unselfishly. That was a long, weary night to the silent man, sitting crouched before the stove from which the fire had long since departed. But it came to an end at last. And, as the first cold rays of the November day came struggling through the windows, he roused himself and prepared for the battle to come. “Win or lose,” he said recklessly, “this day will tell the story, and I might as well prepare myself for either contingency.” He opened the safe and counted the money it contained. There was a large sum there, but not enough, and he made out a check for a larger amount, that he might have it cashed as soon as possible. Then he took from a drawer in his desk a little glittering revolver. It looked such a toy as he held it in his hand, shining as it was with pearl and silver; but it was a deadly toy, and contained the lives of half a dozen men in the hand of an expert. Some thought of this passed through his mind, for he smiled grimly as he returned it to its usual resting place.