“A ship without a rudder,” said Frank.  The others nodded.

* * * * *

Over the municipal administration was the shadow of Ruef’s flight.  The shepherd had deserted his flock.  And the wolves of the law were howling.

Frank was grateful to the Powers for this rushing pageant of political events.  It gave him little chance to grieve.  Now and then the tragedy of Bertha gripped him by the throat and shook him with its devastating loneliness.  He found a certain solace in Aleta’s company.  She was always ready, glad to walk or dine with him.  She knew his silences; she understood.

But there were intervals of grief beyond all palliation; days when he worked blindly through a grist of tasks that seemed unreal.  And at night he sought his room, to sit in darkness, suffering dumbly through the hours.  Sometimes Dawn would find him thus.

Robert Windham and his family had returned from the Hawaiian Islands.  They had found a house in Berkeley; Windham opened offices on Fillmore street.  Robert and his nephew visited occasionally a graveyard in the western part of town.  The older man brought flowers and his tears fell frankly on a mound that was more recent than its neighbors.  But Stanley did not join in these devotions.

“She is not here,” he said one day.  “You know that, Uncle Robert.”

“She’s up above,” returned the other, brokenly.  “My poor, wronged child!”

Frank stared at him a moment.  “Do you believe in the conventional Heaven?”

“Why—­er—­yes,” said Windham, startled.  “Don’t you, Frank?”

“No,” said Stanley, doggedly.  “Not in that ... nor in a God that lets men suffer and be tempted into wrongs they can’t resist ... makes them suffer for it.”

“What do you mean?  Are you an atheist?” asked Windham, horrified.

“No ... but I believe that God is Good.  And knows no evil.  Sometimes in the night when I’ve sat thinking, Bertha seems to come to me; tells me things I can’t quite understand.  Wonderful things, Uncle Robert.”

The other regarded him silently, curiously.  He seemed at a loss.

“I’ve learned to judge men with less harshness,” Frank spoke on.  “Ruef and Schmitz, for instance....  Every now and then I see the Mayor pacing on the ferryboat.  It’s rather pathetic, Uncle Robert.  Did God raise him up from obscurity just to torture him?  He’s had wealth and honor—­adoration from the people.  Now he’s facing prison.  And those poor devils of Supervisors; they’ve known luxury, power.  Now they’re huddled like a pack of frightened sheep; everybody thinks they’re guilty.  Ruef’s forsaken them.  Ruef, with his big dream shattered, fleeing from the law....”

He faced his uncle fiercely, questioning.  “Is that God’s work?  And Bertha’s body lying there, because of the sins of her forebears!  Forgive me, Uncle Robert.  I’m just thinking aloud.”

Windham placed a hand upon his nephew’s shoulder.  “I’m afraid I can’t answer you, Frank,” he said slowly.  “You’re a young man.  You’ll forget.  The world goes on.  And our griefs do not matter.  We fall and we get up again ... just as Ruef and the others will.”