When the cab stopped outside a big building he was steady on his feet when he alighted, and he managed to summon a ghastly smile to his aid as he said to John: "I am sorry to set you a bad example. But that is nothing new, is it? I must have some spirit, strong spirit, or I can't keep up." "Certainly, father. Why not? It is all right as medicine. Willie, you go and get some brandy while I take father upstairs." Their flat was on the second floor. It was neatly furnished, fitted with electric light, and contained five rooms. John talked freely, explaining housekeeping arrangements, the puzzle as to their father's size, for the first bed they bought was a short one, their hours of work, the variety of their employment, any and every cheering topic, indeed, until Willie came with a bottle. Both of them glanced askance at the quantity Mason consumed, but they passed no comment. He tried to smoke, and sat so that the light should not fall on his face. And then he said to them: "Tell me all you know about Philip Anson. It interests me." Snap! The hard composition of his pipe was broken in two. "What a pity!" cried Willie. "Shall I run and buy you a new one?" "No, my boy, no. I can manage. Don't mind me. I can't talk, but I will listen. May the Lord have mercy on me, I will listen!" He suffered that night as few men have suffered. Many a murderer has had to endure the torments of a haunted conscience, but few can have been harrowed by hearing their own sons lauding to the sky the victim's benefactions to themselves and to their dead mother. He was master of his emotions sufficiently to control his voice. He punctuated their recital by occasional comments that showed he appreciated every point. He examined with interest specimens of their work, for they understood both the stitching and the stamping of leather, and once he found himself dully speculating as to what career he would have carved out for himself were he given in boyhood the opportunities they rejoiced in. But throughout there was in his surcharged brain a current of cunning purpose. First, there was Grenier, away in the North, robbing a dead man and plotting desolation to some girl. He must be dealt with. Then he, the slayer, must be slain, and by his own hand. He would spare his sons as much pain as might be within his power. He would not merely disappear, leaving them dubious and distressed. No. They must know he was dead, not by suicide, but by accident. They would mourn his wretched memory. Better that than live with the abiding grief of the knowledge that he was Philip Anson's murderer. He was quite sure now that the dead would arise and call for vengeance if he dared to continue to exist. Yes, that was it--a life for a life--a prayer that his deeds might not bear fruit in his children--and then death, speedy, certain death.