dark fields
beyond them, and inhaled the scent of the wet, green things. It seemed
to Anthony as if it all were hostile--as though the whole outdoors were
besieging this house.

He caught the sway of the pacing figure whose shadow moved in regular
rhythm across the yellow shades. It entered his mind, clung there, and
finally he began to pace in the same cadence, up and down the room. With
every step he felt that he was entering deeper into the danger which
threatened John Woodbury. What danger? For answer to himself he stepped
to the windows and pulled down the shades. At least he could be alone.

CHAPTER VI

JOHN BARD

There is no cleanser of the mind like a morning bath. The same cold,
whipping spray which calls up the pink blood, glowing through the marble
of the skin, drives the ache of sleep from the brain, and washes away at
once all the recorded thoughts of yesterday. So in place of a crowded
slate of wonders and doubts, Anthony bore down to the breakfast table a
willingness to take what the morning might bring and forget the night
before.

John Woodbury was already there, helping himself from the covered
dishes, for the meal was served in the English style. There was the
usual "Good-morning, sir," "Good-morning, Anthony," and then they took
their places at the table. A cautious survey of the craglike face of his
father showed no traces of a sleepless night; but then, what could a
single night of unrest mean to that body of iron?

He ventured, remembering the implied command to remain within the house
until further orders: "You asked me to speak to you, sir, before I left
the house. I'd rather like to take a ride this morning."

And the imperturbable voice replied: "You've worn your horses out
lately. Better give them a day of rest."

That was all, but it brought back to Anthony the thought of the shadow
which had swept ceaselessly across the yellow shades of his father's
room; and he settled down to a day of reading. The misty rain of the
night before had cleared the sky of its vapours, so he chose a nook in
the library where the bright spring sun shone full and the open fire
supplied the warmth. At lunch his father did not appear, and Peters
announced that the master was busy in his room with papers. The
afternoon repeated the morning, but with less unrest on the part of
Anthony. He was busy with _L'Assommoir_, and lost himself in the story
of downfall, surrounding himself with each unbeautif