His tones were so very grim that Junior glanced at him apprehensively; he realized that matters were very far from “all right” with his father. He could see him gripping his shaking hands one over each knee in order to hold himself steady. Then came what he had to say: “As a rule, Junior, I am rather easy with you because you are my son and I want you to get some fun out of life before you begin the work and worry that will come when you are a man; but I am not feeling particularly easy at this minute because I happen to realize that a blow aimed at you is really intended for me. It should be my head that’s bleeding right now instead of yours. Out with it! Who threw that brick?” Junior lay very still. He looked straight ahead of him for an instant and then he studied his father craftily. “It came from the direction of a patch of thick shrubbery beside the house,” he said. “I could not possibly see who threw it.” “Nevertheless, you know who there would be that would throw it,” said Martin Moreland, his voice rough with emotion. “As it happens, since you feel it really was aimed at you, I don’t know,” said Junior. “But I intend to make it my business to find out and when I do, I’ll tell you. This minute I am going to sleep if I can.” Junior turned his back and lay still. So his father blew out the light and went down the stairs. In the hall he met his wife. “I have just remembered that I forgot to sign some papers that must go out in the morning mail,” he said. “I am going down to the bank and attend to them. Go to bed and go to sleep. The boy’s all right. I’ll take another look at him when I come back. If I find he’s feverish, I’ll go after Grayson. If he’s all right, we’ll wait till morning.” Then he took his hat and left the house. He followed the alley beside his residence to where it met a side street and here he took up a familiar route through unlighted ways and deep shadows to the outskirts of the town. His feet led him on a familiar path to a familiar door, and when he tapped upon it, immediately it swung open. He followed Marcia to her room, and when she turned toward him with a smile, she was dumbfounded to see that he was in the most ungovernable rage that ever had possessed him in her presence. “Martin!” she cried, starting toward him, “Martin! What has happened?” Martin Moreland opened his lips to speak, but he was so disconcerted that he could only utter a hissing, stammering sound. Marcia hurried to a cabinet and brought him a glass of wine. With shaking hands he took the glass but his body remained rigid against her efforts to guide him to a chair. Marcia stood before him in white-lipped wonder. “Martin, what have I done?” she entreated. Steadied by the wine, Martin Moreland found his voice. “Done!” he panted. “What have you done? You’ve raised that hell-hound of a Jason in such a way that to-night makes the second time that he has attacked my son! _My son!_”