bout tonight."

The son obeyed, and finally said, with difficulty: "I didn't go to the
Morrison supper."

A sudden cloud of white rose from the bowl of Woodbury's pipe.

"But I thought--"

"That it was a big event? It was--a fine thing for me to get a bid to;
but I went to the Wild West show instead. Sir, I know it was childish,
but--I couldn't help it! I saw the posters; I thought of the
horse-breaking, the guns, the swing and snap and dash of galloping men,
the taint of sweating horses--and by God, sir, I _couldn't_ stay away!
Are you angry?"

It was more than anger; it was almost fear that widened the eye of
Woodbury as he stared at his son. He said at last, controlling himself:
"But I have your word; you've given up the thought of this Western
life?"

"Yes," answered Anthony, with a touch of despair, "I have given it up, I
suppose. But, oh, sir--" He stopped, hopeless.

"And what else happened?"

"Nothing to speak of."

"After you come home you don't usually change your clothes merely for
the pleasure of sitting with me here."

"Nothing escapes you, does it?" muttered Anthony.

"In your set, Anthony, that's what they'd call an improper question."

"I could ask you any number of questions, sir, for that matter."

"Well?"

"That room over there, for instance, which you always keep locked. Am I
never to have a look at it?"

He indicated a door which opened from the library.

"I hope not."

"You say that with a good deal of feeling. But there's one thing more
that I have a right to hear about. My mother! Why do you never tell me
of her?"

The big man stirred and the chair groaned beneath him.

"Because it tortures me to speak of her, Anthony," said the husky voice.
"Tortures me, lad!"

"I let the locked room go," said Anthony firmly, "but my mother--she is
different. Why, sir, I don't even know how she looked! Dad, it's my
right!"

"Is it? By God, you have a right to know exactly what I choose to tell
you--no more!"

He rose, strode across the room with ponderous steps, drew aside the
curtains which covered the view of the garden below, and stared for a
time into the night. When he turned he found that Anthony had risen--a
slender, erect figure. His voice was as quiet as his anger, but an
inward quality made it as thrilling as the hoarse boom of his father.

"On that point I stick. I must know something about her."

"Must?"

"In spite of your anger. That locked room is yours; this hous