And with his rage against the man came more and more detestation of the crime itself.  At the very beginning it had no possible excuse in honest love.  There was nothing belonging to it of nature’s grand instinct.  It had not the inexorable brutality of primitive passion.  Here was an old, or an elderly man, not driven by the force of normal, full-blooded desire, but craftily plotting, treacherously abusing his power, because he was rotten with impure whims—­befouling youth and innocence just to obtain a few faint voluptuous thrills.

Then the brain-pictures flashed out with torturing clearness, and Dale saw the criminal renewing the outrage after long years.  He was quite old, shaky, infirm, and yet strong enough to consummate the final act of his infinite wickedness.  And Dale saw those yellow-white hands, with their nauseating blotches, their glistening blue knobs, and their jeweled rings, as they took possession again of the victim to whom they had once given freedom.

Daylight was coming fast; the flame of the candles had turned so pale that one could scarcely see it.  Dale got off the bed heavily and clumsily, blew out one of the candles and carried the other to the fireplace.  There he lighted the corners of the three bank-notes and watched them burning in the empty grate till nothing was left of them but black and gray powder.  Then he put on his hat and moved to the door.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Blindly raging, he passed through the silent, deserted streets, and presently blundered into Regent’s Park.  It was all exquisitely pretty in the pure morning light, with dew-wet grass, feathery branches of trees, and the water of a river or lake flashing and sparkling; and as he stared stupidly about him, he thought for a moment that he was experiencing an illusion of the senses.  Or was he a boy again safe in his forest?  This sort of thing belonged to the happy past, and could have no proper place in the abominable present.

He crossed a low rail, walked on a little way toward the water, and then threw himself face downward on the grass.  He knew where he was now—­in the present time, in a public pleasure-ground.  London stretched about the park, and beyond that there was the vast round globe; beyond that again there was the universe; and it seemed to him that, big as it all was, it was not big enough to hold one other man and himself.

When, four or five hours later, he came back to the lodging-house he found his wife dressed and sitting by the bedroom table.  She had contrived to wash away nearly all the marks of violence:  one noticed only the swollen aspect of the whole face, an inflamed eyebrow, and a cut lip.  She looked up meekly and fondly as a thrashed dog.

“Will, have you decided what you will do?”

“No.”

Then, while getting together his things and beginning to pack, he told her that he would take his fortnight’s leave, as arranged, and carefully consider matters.  “And then, at the end of the fortnight, if I’m above ground by that time, I’ll let you know what I’ve decided.”