He turned to the door, murmuring, "My wife gone, Kit a nobody, an' Joe,
little Joe, a murderer, an' then I--I--ust to pray to Gawd an' call him
'Ouah Fathah.'" He laughed hoarsely. It sounded like nothing Fannie had
ever heard before.

"Don't, Be'y, don't say dat. Maybe we don't un'erstan'."

Her faith still hung by a slender thread, but his had given way in that
moment.

"No, we don't un'erstan'," he laughed as he went out of the door. "We
don't un'erstan'."

He staggered down the steps, blinded by his emotions, and set his face
towards the little lodging that he had taken temporarily. There seemed
nothing left in life for him to do. Yet he knew that he must work to
live, although the effort seemed hardly worth while. He remembered now
that the _Universe_ had offered him the under janitorship in its
building. He would go and take it, and some day, perhaps--He was not
quite sure what the "perhaps" meant. But as his mind grew clearer he
came to know, for a sullen, fierce anger was smouldering in his heart
against the man who through lies had stolen his wife from him. It was
anger that came slowly, but gained in fierceness as it grew.

Yes, that was it, he would kill Gibson. It was no worse than his present
state. Then it would be father and son murderers. They would hang him or
send him back to prison. Neither would be hard now. He laughed to
himself.

And this was what they had let him out of prison for? To find out all
this. Why had they not left him there to die in ignorance? What had he
to do with all these people who gave him sympathy? What did he want of
their sympathy? Could they give him back one tithe of what he had lost?
Could they restore to him his wife or his son or his daughter, his quiet
happiness or his simple faith?

He went to work for the _Universe_, but night after night, armed, he
patrolled the sidewalk in front of Fannie's house. He did not know
Gibson, but he wanted to see them together. Then he would strike. His
vigils kept him from his bed, but he went to the next morning's work
with no weariness. The hope of revenge sustained him, and he took a
savage joy in the thought that he should be the dispenser of justice to
at least one of those who had wounded him.

Finally he grew impatient and determined to wait no longer, but to seek
his enemy in his own house. He approached the place cautiously and went
up the steps. His hand touched the bell-pull. He staggered back.

"Oh, my Gawd!" he