It seemed to Anthony Dexter that all the tortures of his laboratory had been chemically concentrated and were being poured out upon his head.  “Our name means ‘right,’” said the boy, proudly, and the man writhed in his chair.

For a moment, the ghostly Evelina went to Ralph, her hands outstretched in disapproval.  Immediately she returned to her former position, advancing, retreating, advancing, retreating, with the regularity of the tide.

“I begged her,” continued Ralph, “to tell me the man’s name, but she would not.  He still lives, she said, he is happy and prosperous and he has not suffered at all.  For the honour of men, I want to punish that brute.  Father, do you know that when I think of a cur like that, I believe I could rend him with my own hands?”

Anthony Dexter got to his feet unsteadily.  The mists about him cleared and the veiled figure whisked suddenly out of his sight.  He went up to Ralph as he might walk to the scaffold, but his head was held high.  All the anguish of his soul crystallised itself into one passionate word: 

“Strike!”

For an instant the boy faced him, unbelieving.  Then he remembered that his father had seen Miss Evelina’s face, that he must have known she was beautiful—­and why she wore the veil.  “Father!” he cried, shrilly.  “Oh, never you!”

Anthony Dexter looked into the eyes of his son until he could bear to look no more.  The veiled figure no longer stood between them, but something else was there, infinitely more terrible.  As he had watched the beating of the dog’s bared heart, the man watched the boy’s face.  Incredulity, amazement, wonder, and fear resolved themselves gradually into conviction.  Then came contempt, so deep and profound and permanent that from it there could never be appeal.  With all the strength of his young and knightly soul, Ralph despised his father—­and Anthony Dexter knew it.

“Father,” whispered the boy, hoarsely, “it was never you!  Tell me it isn’t true!  Just a word, and I’ll believe you!  For the sake of our manhood, Father, tell me it isn’t true!”

Anthony Dexter’s head drooped, his eyes lowered before his son’s.  The cold sweat dripped from his face; his hands groped pitifully, like those of a blind man, feeling his way in a strange place.

His hands fumbled helplessly toward Ralph’s and the boy shrank back as though from the touch of a snake.  With a deep-drawn breath of agony, the man flung himself, unseeing, out of the room.  Ralph reeled like a drunken man against his chair.  He sank into it helplessly and his head fell forward on the table, his shoulders shaking with that awful grief which knows no tears.

“Father!” he breathed.  “Father!  Father!”

Upstairs, Anthony Dexter walked through the hall, followed, or occasionally preceded, by the ghostly figure of Evelina.  Her veil was thrown back now, and seemed a part of the mist which surrounded her.  Sometimes he had told a patient that there was never a point beyond which human endurance could not be made to go.  He knew now that he had lied.