He left the old board sidewalk and crept to the porch that he might hear the better.

Then every nerve within him jangled, and the black of the darkness changed to red.

The Rodaines were within; he had heard first the cold voice of the father, then the rasping tones of the son, in upbraiding.

More, there had come the sobbing of a woman; instinctively Fairchild knew that it was Anita Richmond.

And then: It was her voice, high, screaming.