“Yes,” said Wayne, “I think you do understand,” and he spoke the words slowly, with a sharp precision, but he smiled slightly. He forgot himself, his own life and its better aims; the new aspirations that had visited him during his long self-communing in the hills; the thought of his own honour; the precious faith in life and love that Jean Morley had roused, in him--all went down before this undreamed of, this exquisite vengeance. He had offered to assume responsibility for the death of this old man who lay stiffening there on the floor, and Roger Craighill--his father--would suffer it, would accept the sacrifice and connive at its fulfilment! Wayne’s eyes were not good to see as he watched his father for some sign. A long silence followed in which neither moved, and when Colonel Craighill turned toward his son it was with a guarded, furtive glance, as though he had hoped to find him gone. “The doctors are on the way, all of them,” said Mrs. Craighill at the door. “What else is there to do?” “Nothing,” said Wayne, “but this: when they come, if there’s any question of a blow having been struck, I did it--_I did it_. And,” he deliberated, “you’d better call Tom Walsh at the Allequippa Club and tell him to come up. He’s a good hand with the newspapers and the police. Good night.” * * * * * Wayne rode back to the city in the motor that had carried him home, and at the garage Joe, gossiping with the loafing chauffeurs, heard him order out his racing machine. They had not met since Wayne’s long absence in the hills, but Joe had learned from Paddock that Wayne was in a place of safety. Wayne’s appearance at the garage and demand for the racer brought Joe up standing, and he took charge of the machine without a word. Wayne hardly noticed him, so deep was his preoccupation; and this in itself seemed ominous to Joe. “So you’re going are you, Joe? Well, we’re likely to be gone a long time,” Wayne said, throwing his bags into the car. At the Allequippa Club he cashed a check for a thousand dollars and supplied himself with cigars. And so they plunged into the night, over the rough roads of spring. CHAPTER XXXIV THE HEART OF THE BUGLE They came to Harrisburg, with the sun low in the west and a soft haze enfolding the capitol dome--that proud assertion of a commonwealth’s strength and power that greets the eye of western pilgrims bound for Washington, and speaks of the pride of statehood--and no mean state, this!