Why, then, with the memory of this exultant hour to fend off all shadows, did the midnight find him in his solitary hangar in the moonlit woods, a deeply desponding figure again.  Beside him, swung the huge machine which represented a life of power and luxury; but he no longer saw it.  It called to him with many a creak and quiet snap,—­sounds to start his blood and fire his eye a week—­nay, a day ago.  But he was deaf to this music now; the call went unheeded; the future had no further meaning, for him, nor did he know or think whether he sat in light or in darkness; whether the woods were silent about him, or panting with life and sound.  His demon had gripped him again and the final battle was on.  There would never be another.  Mighty as he felt himself to be, there were limits even to his capacity for endurance.  He could sustain no further conflict.  How then would it end?  He never had a doubt himself!  Yet he sat there.

Around him in the forest, the night owls screeched and innumerable small things without a name, skurried from lair to lair.

He heard them not.

Above, the moon rode, flecking the deepest shadows with the silver from her half-turned urn, but none of the soft and healing drops fell upon him.  Nature was no longer a goddess, but an avenger; light a revealer, not a solace.  Darkness the only boon.

Nor had time a meaning.  From early eve to early morn he sat there and knew not if it were one hour or twelve.  Earth was his no longer.  He roused, when the sun made everything light about him, but he did not think about it.  He rose, but was not conscious that he rose.  He unlocked the door and stepped out into the forest; but he could never remember doing this.  He only knew later that he had been in the woods and now was in his room at the hotel; all the rest was phantasmagoria, agony and defeat.

He had crossed the Rubicon of this world’s hopes and fears, but he had been unconscious of the passage.

XXXIX

THE AVENGER

“Dear Mr. Challoner: 

“With every apology for the intrusion, may I request
a few minutes of private conversation with you this evening
at seven o’clock?  Let it be in your own room.

“Yours truly,
“Orlando Brotherson.”

Mr. Challoner had been called upon to face many difficult and heartrending duties since the blow which had desolated his home fell upon him.

But from none of them had he shrunk as he did from the interview thus demanded.  He had supposed himself rid of this man.  He had dismissed him from his life when he had dismissed Sweetwater.  His face, accordingly, wore anything but a propitiatory look, when promptly at the hour of seven, Orlando Brotherson entered his apartments.

His pleasure or his displeasure was, however, a matter of small consequence to his self-invited visitor.  He had come there with a set purpose, and nothing in heaven or earth could deter him from it now.  Declining the offer of a seat, with the slightest of acknowledgments in the way of a bow, he took a careful survey of the room before saying: