“I’ve got a date,” he gayly said to his sycophantic friends, in a tone that would reach Lane’s ears.

The summer night came when Lane drove a hired car out the river road, keeping ever in sight a red light in front of him.  He broke the law and endangered his life by traveling with darkened lamps.

There was a crescent moon, clear and exquisitely delicate in the darkening blue sky.  The gleaming river shone winding away under the dusky wooded hills.  The white road stretched ahead, dimming in the distance.  A night for romance and love—­for a maiden at a stile and a lover who hung rapt and humble upon her whispers!  But that red eye before him held no romance.  It leered as the luxurious sedan swayed from side to side, a diabolical thing with speed.

Lane was driving out the state highway, mile after mile.  He calculated that in less than ten minutes Swann had taken a girl from a bustling corner of Middleville out into the open country.  In pleasant weather, when the roads were good, cars like Swann’s swerved off into the bypaths, into the edge of woods.  In bad weather they parked along the highway, darkened their lights and pulled their blinds.  For this, great factories turned out automobiles.  And there might have pealed out to a nation, and to God, the dolorous cry of a hundred thousand ruined girls!  But who would hear?  And on the lips of girls of the present there was only the wild cry for excitement, for the nameless and unknown!  There was a girl in Swann’s car and Lane believed it was his sister.  Night after night he had watched.  Once he had actually seen Lorna ride off with Swann.  And to-night from a vantage point under the maples, when he had a car ready to follow, he had made sure he had seen them again.

The red eye squared off at right angles to the highway, and disappeared.  Lane came to a byroad, a lane lined with trees.  He stopped his car and got out.  It did not appear that he would have to walk far.  And he was right, for presently a black object loomed against the gray obscurity.  It was an automobile, without lights, in the shadow of trees.

Lane halted.  He carried a flash-light in his left hand, his gun in his right.  For a moment he deliberated.  This being abroad in the dark on an errand fraught with peril for some one had a familiar and deadly tang.  He was at home in this atmosphere.  Hell itself had yawned at his feet many and many a time.  He was a different man here.  He deliberated because it was wise to forestall events.  He did not want to kill Swann then, unless in self-defense.  He waited until that peculiarly quick and tight and cold settling of his nerves told of brain control over heart.  Yet he was conscious of subdued hate, of a righteous and terrible wrath held in abeyance for the sake of his sister’s name.  And he regretted that he had imperiously demanded of himself this assurance of Lorna’s wantonness.

Then he stole forward, closer and closer.  He heard a low voice of dalliance, a titter, high-pitched and sweet—­sweet and wild.  That was not Lorna’s laugh.  The car was not Swann’s.