Young Doyle did not run away. He stood by, a defiant figure full
of hatred, watching Anthony on the cobbles, as though he wanted to
see him revive and suffer.

"I didn't do it to revenge my father," he said at the trial. "He
was nothing to me-- I did it to show old Cardew that he couldn't
get away with it. I'd do it again, too."

Any sentiment in his favor died at that, and he was given five years
in the penitentiary. He was a demoralizing influence there, already
a socialist with anarchical tendencies, and with the gift of
influencing men. A fluent, sneering youth, who lashed the guards to
fury with his unctuous, diabolical tongue.

The penitentiary had not been moved then. It stood in the park, a
grim gray thing of stone. Elinor Cardew, a lonely girl always, used
to stand in a window of the new house and watch the walls. Inside
there were men who were shut away from all that greenery around them.
Men who could look up at the sky, or down at the ground, but never
out and across, as she could.

She was always hoping some of them would get away. She hated the
sentries, rifle on shoulder, who walked their monotonous beats, back
and forward, along the top of the wall.

Anthony's house was square and substantial, with high ceilings. It
was paneled with walnut and furnished in walnut, in those days. Its
tables and bureaus were of walnut, with cold white marble tops. And
in the parlor was a square walnut piano, which Elinor hated because