“Ill?  No.  Never better.”  Faxon picked up the lantern.  “Come; let’s go back.  It was awfully hot in that dining-room,” he added.

“Yes; I hoped it was only that.”

They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then Faxon questioned:  “You’re not too done up?”

“Oh, no.  It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.”

“All right.  Don’t talk any more.”

They pushed ahead, walking, in spite of the light that guided them, more slowly than Faxon had walked alone into the gale.  The fact of his companion’s stumbling against a drift gave him a pretext for saying:  “Take hold of my arm,” and Rainer, obeying, gasped out:  “I’m blown!”

“So am I. Who wouldn’t be?”

“What a dance you led me!  If it hadn’t been for one of the servants’ happening to see you—­”

“Yes:  all right.  And now, won’t you kindly shut up?”

Rainer laughed and hung on him.  “Oh, the cold doesn’t hurt me. ...”

For the first few minutes after Rainer had overtaken him, anxiety for the lad had been Faxon’s only thought.  But as each laboring step carried them nearer to the spot he had been fleeing, the reasons for his flight grew more ominous and more insistent.  No, he was not ill; he was not distraught and deluded—­he was the instrument singled out to warn and save; and here he was, irresistibly driven, dragging the victim back to his doom!

The intensity of the conviction had almost checked his steps.  But what could he do or say?  At all costs he must get Rainer out of the cold, into the house and into his bed.  After that he would act.

The snow-fall was thickening, and as they reached a stretch of the road between open fields the wind took them at an angle, lashing their faces with barbed thongs.  Rainer stopped to take breath, and Faxon felt the heavier pressure of his arm.

“When we get to the lodge, can’t we telephone to the stable for a sleigh?”

“If they’re not all asleep at the lodge.”

“Oh, I’ll manage.  Don’t talk!” Faxon ordered; and they plodded on. ...

At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved away from the road under tree-darkness.

Faxon’s spirits rose.  “There’s the gate!  We’ll be there in five minutes.”

As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge, the gleam of a light at the farther end of the dark avenue.  It was the same light that had shone on the scene of which every detail was burnt into his brain; and he felt again its overpowering reality.  No—­he couldn’t let the boy go back!

They were at the lodge at last, and Faxon was hammering on the door.  He said to himself:  “I’ll get him inside first, and make them give him a hot drink.  Then I’ll see—­I’ll find an argument. ...”

There was no answer to his knocking, and after an interval Rainer said:  “Look here—­we’d better go on.”

“No!”

“I can, perfectly—­”