I peered at the indistinct features of the man. It was the dissipated ashen-white, almost leprous face of Pendleton. With an incredible swiftness I felt my mental machinery working. Something must be done. All hate of him and all fear of him vanished from my mind before a faint lucid beam of a sort of indolent humor. "That you, Jim?" I queried, peering more closely. "Hello, Jim!" I greeted him in a jocund undertone, bringing my voice round, with a great effort, to a pitch of naturalness. "No, officer," I went on glibly. "Nothing wrong. This man was here on a business matter. Left late. Running for a train, I suppose—weren’t you, Jim?" "Yes," came hoarsely from Pendleton, and a quiver of triumph ran down my spine. "There’ll be a train—let’s see—" I fumbled. The policeman glanced quizzically from one to the other of us, then shrewdly interposed: "Train to N’York at three-seven. No use running," he grinned. My ear, hypersensitive at that moment, seemed still to catch a note of doubt in the zealous constable’s voice. And when I longed to fling out, in the words of the ballad— He is either himsel’ a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be, I heard myself saying calmly, "Thank you, officer." Then to Pendleton: "Don’t you want to come in and spend the night after all, Jim?" "No, I better go," mumbled Pendleton, edging away. "Sorry to have troubled you, gentlemen," apologized Halloran suavely. "But you know—so many robberies in the suburbs—orders is to look out extry sharp. Good night to ye, Mr. Byrd. Good night, sir," he nodded with ill-concealed contempt at Pendleton. "Good night," muttered Pendleton and slouched off heavily down the gravel path. "No harm done," grinned Halloran, looking queerly after his recent prisoner. "But I could have sworn—" I interrupted him with a boisterous laugh. "Not at all, officer. Sorry you had the trouble—many thanks for your watchfulness. See you to-morrow." "All right!" he responded with smart alacrity. "Good night, sir." I closed the door. In the room the lad Randolph sat alone, somewhat straighter now, gazing before him. He must have heard the colloquy at the door. "Well, Randolph," I approached him quietly, "now what do you want to say to me?" He did not answer for a space. Finally he spoke: "What are you going to do with me, Uncle Ranny?" My anger against him had subsided. I saw only the frail young mortal, Laura’s son, whom I had undertaken to make a man of—and I had failed! "What do you think I ought to do with you?" I queried gently. There was no longer even rancor in my heart. "Put me away, I guess," he answered dully. "That’s what I deserve." "When did you first meet your—your father?" I found myself wincing at the word, but after all Pendleton _was_ his father. "About three weeks ago," was the reply. "How did it happen?"