ttle day of love and hate, the infinite mercy, and the
inexorable law.

Gard paused, his hand upon the bell. Now at last he could enter this
house, and wish it peace. His errand, even the all-comprehending eyes of
the dead and gone warrior could look upon without their half-cynic
sadness.

As he entered the great silent hall, where the footfalls of the servant
were hushed, as if overawed by tragedy, he seemed to leave behind him,
as distinctly as he discarded the garment he gave into the lackey's
hands, the bitterness of the past. He was ushered into a small and
elaborate waiting room to the right. And a moment later Teddy Mahr
entered to him, with extended hands.

The boy had aged. His face was white and drawn, but the eyes that looked
into Gard's face were courageous and clear.

"Thank you for coming," he said frankly. "Shall we sit here, or--in
Father's room?" His mouth twitched slightly. "It really must be part of
the house, you know. It was his workshop--and I want it to be mine in
the future. I haven't been in there since, and, somehow, if you don't
mind, sir, I'd like you to come with me--to be with me, when I first go
back."

Gard nodded and smiled rather grimly. "Yes, boy--I'd like to myself. I
would have asked it of you, but I feared to awaken memories that were
too painful for you. Let us go in. What I have to talk over with you
concerns him, too."

They crossed the hall, and Teddy unlocked the heavy door and paused to
find the switch. The anteroom sprung into light. In silence they crossed
the intervening space to the inner door, which was in turn unlocked.

As the soft lights were once more renewed, Gard started, so vividly had
he reconstructed the scene as he had last looked upon it, with that
hasty yet detailed scrutiny of the stage manager. He was almost
surprised to find the great damask-covered easy chair untenanted, and
order restored to the length and breadth of the library table.
Involuntarily his eyes sought the wall behind the desk, where the
panoply of ancient arms glinted somberly, then scanned the polished
surface of the wood in search of what?--of the stiletto that was a foil
in miniature. Somehow, though he knew that it, along with other relics
of that dreadful passing, were in charge of the officials of the law, he
had expected to see it there. Something of the impermanence of life and
the indifferent, soulless permanence of things, flashed through his
mind. "Art and art alone, endu