," she said, presently, as if
reluctantly forced to impart this information.

"Where was she?" he queried, blankly.

"She said she would stay with a friend."

"What friend?"

"Some girl. Oh, it's all right I suppose. She's stayed away before
with girl friends.... But what worried me...."

"Well," queried Lane, as she paused.

"Lorna was angry again last night. And she told me if you didn't stop
your nagging she'd go away from home and stay. Said she could afford
to pay her board."

"She told me that, too," replied Lane, slowly. "And--I'm afraid she
meant it."

"Leave her alone, Daren."

"Poor mother! I'm afraid I'm a--a worry to you as well as Lorna," he
said, gently, with a hand going to her worn cheek. She said nothing,
although her glance rested upon him with sad affection.

Lane clambered wearily up to his little room. It had always been a
refuge. He leaned a moment against the wall, and felt in his extremity
like an animal in a trap. A thousand pricking, rushing sensations
seemed to be on the way to his head. That confusion, that sensation as
if his blood vessels would burst, yielded to his will. He sat down on
his bed. Only the physical pains and weariness, and the heartsickness
abided with him. These had been nothing to daunt his spirit. But
to-day was different. The dark, vivid, terrible picture in his mind
unrolled like a page. Yesterday was different. To-day he seemed a
changed man, confronted by imperious demands. Time was driving onward
fast.

As if impelled by a dark and sinister force, he slowly leaned down to
pull his bag from under the bed. He opened it, and drew out his Colt's
automatic gun. Though the June day was warm this big worn metal weapon
had a cold touch. He did not feel that he wanted to handle it, but he
did. It seemed heavy, a thing of subtle, latent energy, with singular
fascination for him. It brought up a dark flowing tide of memory. Lane
shut his eyes, and saw the tide flow by with its conflict and horror.
The feel of his gun, and the recall of what it had meant to him in
terrible hours, drove away a wavering of will, and a still voice that
tried to pierce his consciousness. It fixed his sinister intention. He
threw the gun on the bed, and rising began to pace the floor.

"If I told what I saw--no jury on earth would convict me," he
soliloquized. "But I'll kill him--and keep my mouth shut."

Plan after plan he had pondered in mind--and talked over with
Blair--something