during those dark hours will always
remain an impenetrable mystery. But I do know this. On the morrow I was
torn from my sleep by the shrieks of maids and butlers, and by that mad
wailing of your aunt. I stumbled through the open door of my study, and
in the nursery I saw those two babies there--lifeless, white and dry
like mummies, and with twin holes in their necks that were caked black
with their own blood....

"Oh, I don't blame you for your incredulousness, Arthur. I cannot
believe it yet myself, nor shall I ever believe it. The belief of it
would drive me to suicide; and still the doubting of it drives me mad
with horror.

"All of France was doubtful, and even the savants who defended my name
at the trial found that they could not explain it nor disbelieve it. The
case was quieted by the Republic, for it might have shaken science to
its very foundation and split the pedestals of religion and logic. I was
released from the charge of murder; but the actual murder has hung about
me like a stench.

"The coroners who examined those tiny cadavers found them both dry of
all their blood, but could find no blood on the floor of the nursery nor
in the cradles. Something from hell stalked the halls of Duryea that
night--and I should blow my brains out if I dared to think deeply of who
that was. You, too, my son, would have been dead and bloodless if you
hadn't been sleeping in a separate room with your door barred on the
inside.

"You were a timid child, Arthur. You were only seven years old, but you
were filled with the folk-lore of those mad Lombards and the decadent
poetry of your aunt. On that same night, while I was some place between
heaven and hell, you, also, heard the padded footsteps on the stone
corridor and heard the tugging at your door handle, for in the morning
you complained of a chill and of terrible nightmares which frightened
you in your sleep.... I only thank God that your door was barred!"

* * * * *

Henry Duryea's voice choked into a sob which brought the stinging tears
back into his eyes. He paused to wipe his face, and to dig his fingers
into his palm.

"You understand, Arthur, that for twenty years, under my sworn oath at
the Palace of Justice, I could neither see you nor write to you. Twenty
years, my son, while all of that time you had grown to hate me and to
spit at my name. Not until your aunt's death have you called yourself a
Duryea.... And now you come