Darkness had fallen. The wind was sighing heavily, and no star
appeared.
Through the dense shadow of the trees Darkham was hurrying
swiftly, stealthily. Sometimes he ran, but always he made great
haste.
A loose sweeping branch met him, and cut him across the face a
swingeing blow. He felt no pain. When he had broken it he cast it
aside impatiently and went on with even increasing speed.
Suddenly he stood still and listened. _Again_!
It was the second time he had heard that sound, or fancied he had
heard it. A dull unplaceable sound, yet one that suggested itself
to him as the footsteps of a person following.
Once before he had stopped to listen, but nothing came of it,
except the heavy soughing of the wind in the trees as the storm
swept over them. No sound but that. Yet all through his hurried
walk in the wood, it had seemed to him that that sound lay behind
him, as though some strange thing was haunting him.
He went on again, moving cautiously, yet with great speed. Every
now and then he thrust his hand into his inner pocket, and there
felt for something, and patted it with a curious affection.
As he passed the edge of the wood, almost as his foot was on the
road, he started. He looked back. The murky shadows of the wood
told him nothing; but--_that sound!_ Again that sound! He could
have sworn he heard footsteps!
A sudden fear caught him; he turned, and rushed back into the
wood, crashing to right and left of him. If he was followed,
why, his purpose would be at an end; but he swore to himself, as
he rushed here and there, that if he caught the man who had
circumvented him, he would kill him on the spot.
Then his fury abated. He grew suddenly quite quiet. There was
nothing, after all--nothing.
He wiped his brow and went on.
He tried the latch of the gate, but it was locked. He cared
nothing for small obstructions like that. He climbed it easily
enough, and went on down the avenue.
As he drew near the house, for the first time fear rose within
his heart. But it was a fear that would have made the angels
weep.
Was the ladder there? Or had one of the workmen taken it away?
He ran frantically to the break in the laurels from which the
house could be seen.
The ladder was there!
He thrust his hand for the last time into his pocket, and felt
the knife, and fondled it. Then he went on.
He reached the ladder, put his foot on it, and mounted. He began
to climb quickly, yet with a dogged determination to make no
mistake. There should be no false step.
When he was half-way up he looked down. Beneath was an area that
surrounded the whole house--an area lately cemented. It was
broad and white and clean. In the darkness it made a sort of
light.
He turned his eyes from that and looked up. The window above was
open--wide open; the sash had not been replaced.
He mounted still higher. The sill was almost within his reach; he
put out his hand to grasp it, but it fell short. Another rung or
two, and then---
Suddenly he made a lurch forward and clung to the ladder. The
ladder was swaying to and fro. He made a quick rush upwards and
put out his hand to grasp the ledge of Dillwyn's window--but he
was still too low for that.
The ladder was swaying heavily from side to side; it was now
almost on the very edge of the sill. Soon it would be over.
Something from below must be dragging it--dragging---
He made a frantic dash at the sill--_and missed it!_
Again the ladder swayed, this time _towards_ the desired sill.
Darkham braced himself for a last effort. He made a dash and
sprang on to the sill of Dillwyn's room.
That precipitated the end. The ladder, reaching the edge, toppled
over and went with a crash to the cemented area below.
Darkham, clutching on to the sill, saw the fall of the ladder.
That meant death unless help came soon; and who was to give him
help? _The man he had come to murder?_
He clung on desperately, his nails working into the hard stone.
If he shouted, Dillwyn would hear him, would rescue him; but even
at this last moment his hatred of Dillwyn held him dumb.
His fingers were growing tired--his nails were wearing away and
loosening.... In a moment they would come to the edge, and
then---
Mad despair was in his heart. He clung desperately to the sill! A
minute--could he hold on another minute? There was only a
minute left. Was it so far to fall. Death rather than an appeal
to his rival. So far the strength of the man held out.
But now his nails were loosening; his eyes, mad with fear, sought
the ground below.
He looked--_and looked_--and all at once a fearful yell broke
from him.
What was that thing down there--crouching--with that white
cloth over her mouth? Had she come--_was she waiting for him?_
Great God! have mercy!
His fingers gave way. He fell with a sickening scream on to the
hard cement below.
There was a hideous thud.
....
That awful yell had wakened Dillwyn from his sleep--a sleep
that would have been death but for it. He sprang up and rushed to
the open window, but too late! He caught a vague, awful vision of
one falling--falling through the air into eternity--but that
was all.
It was enough, however; he lit a lamp, and rushed downstairs to
the front of the house. There he lowered the lamp and looked
about him. Nothing--nothing to be seen. He stepped down from
the avenue on to the newly-cemented area that ran round the
house, and looked about him with an anxious gaze. Suddenly he
found he was stepping on a little crimson line that ran towards
him sluggishly.
With a sharp ejaculation he stepped aside. A cold chill ran
through him. All at once he knew that it was blood.
Then he went on, following up the red line until he came to---
Darkham was lying on the pavement, smashed almost out of
recognition, yet still alive. Dillwyn knew that by the convulsive
twitching of the fingers.
A figure was bending over him. Dillwyn at once saw it was the
idiot, and even as he watched, the unhappy creature bent lower
and laid a white cloth over the dying man's nose and mouth,
pressing it down with a demoniacal force.
Dillwyn hurried forward, calling aloud as he came, but the idiot
crouching over Darkham could not hear. At last he reached them
and flung himself upon the wretched boy, and tore him from his
prey.
The idiot grappled with him in a sort of frenzy, but Dillwyn held
on. The lamp threw a dull light upon the dying man's face--but
above them and around was gloom.
All at once the idiot desisted from his struggle; he pointed
frantically to Darkham.
Dillwyn followed his gaze. Darkham had risen on his elbow--it
was the last effort before death. Dillwyn went to him and laid
his arm round him, but Darkham pushed him back. Yet it seemed to
the younger man that, though Darkham's hatred of him followed him
to the grave, his last thoughts were not of him.
The dying man lifted his hand and pointed it slowly, solemnly at
his son--the son who sat opposite to him, laughing in his dying
face. There was some awful meaning in Darkham's glazing eyes, as
though he saw something beyond the idiot--something so horrible
that it _kept_ him alive in spite of nature. He struggled forward
as though to address _some one_--some one Dillwyn could not see
--but the struggle was too much for him, and he fell back....
Dillwyn caught him in his arms--he was dead.
A great shout rose from the idiot.
"Sho! Sho! Sho!" yelled he.
His mother was avenged.