place, then perhaps a distended sigh, and, again, footsteps. . . .
Arthur crouched at the open door of his room. His head was cocked for those noises from below. In his hands was a double-barrel shotgun of violent gage.
. . . thud . . . thud . . . thud . . .
Then a pause, the clinking of a glass and the gurgling of liquid. The sigh, the tread of his feet over the floor....
"He's thirsty," Arthur thought—Thirsty!
Outside, the storm had grown into fury. Lightning zigzagged between the mountains, filling the valley with weird phosphorescence. Thunder, like drums, rolled incessantly.
Within the lodge the heat of the fireplace piled the atmosphere thick with stagnation. All the doors and windows were locked shut, the oil-lamps glowed weakly—a pale, anemic light.
Henry Duryea walked to the foot of the stairs and stood looking up.
Arthur sensed his movements and ducked back into his room, the gun gripped in his shaking fingers.
Then Henry Duryea's footstep sounded on the first stair.
Arthur slumped to one knee. He buckled a fist against his teeth as a prayer tumbled through them.
Duryea climbed a second step . . . and another . . . and still one more. On the fourth stair he stopped.
"Arthur!" His voice cut into the silence like the crack of a whip. "Arthur! Will you come down here?"
"Yes, Dad." Bedraggled, his body hanging like cloth, young Duryea took five steps to the landing.
"We can't be zanies!" cried Henry Duryea. "My soul is sick with dread. Tomorrow we're going back to New York. I'm going to get the first boat to open sea. . . . Please come down here." He turned about and descended the stairs to his room.
Arthur choked back the words which had lumped in his mouth. Half dazed, he followed. . . .
In the bedroom he saw his father stretched face-up along the bed. He saw a pile of rope at his father's feet.
"Tie me to the bedposts, Arthur," came the command. "Tie both my hands and both my feet.
Arthur stood gaping.
"Do as I tell you!"
"Dad, what hor"
"Don't be a fool! You read that book! You know what relation you are to me! I'd always hoped it was Cecilia, but now I know it's you. I should have known it on that night twenty years ago when you complained of a headache and nightmares. . . . Quickly, my head rocks with pain. Tie me!"
Speechless, his own pain piercing him with agony, Arthur fell to that grisly task. Both hands he tied—and both feet . . . tied them so firmly to the iron posts that his father could not lift himself an inch off the bed.
Then he blew out the lamps, and without a further glance at that Prometheus, he reascended the stairs to his room, and slammed and locked his door behind him.
He looked once at the breech of his gun, and set it against a chair by his bed. He flung off his robe and slippers, and within five minutes he was senseless in slumber.
4
He slept late, and when he awakened his muscles were as stiff as boards, and the lingering visions of a nightmare clung before his eyes. He pushed his way out of bed, stood dazedly on the floor.
