ul detail.

Lunch was repeated at dinner, for still John Woodbury seemed to be "busy
with papers in his room." A fear came to Anthony that he was to be
dodged indefinitely in this manner, deceived like a child, and kept in
the house until the silent drama was played out. But when he sat in the
library that evening his father came in and quietly drew up a chair by
the fire. The stage was ideally set for a confidence, but none was
forthcoming. The fire shook long, sleepy shadows through the room, the
glow of the two floor-lamps picked out two circles of light, and still
the elder man sat over his paper and would not speak.

_L'Assommoir_ ended, and to rid himself of the grey tragedy, Anthony
looked up and through the windows toward the bright night which lay over
the gardens and terraces outside, for a full moon silvered all with a
flood of light. It was a waiting time, and into it the old-fashioned
Dutch clock in the corner sent its voice with a monotonous, softly
clanging toll of seconds, until Anthony forgot the moonlight over the
outside terraces to watch the gradual sway of the pendulum. A minute,
spent in this manner, was equal to an hour of ordinary time. Fascinated
by the sway of the pendulum he became conscious of the passage of
existence like a river broad and wide and shining which flowed on into
an eternity of chance and left him stationary on the banks.

The voice which sounded at length was as dim and visionary as a part of
his waking dream. It was like one of those imagined calls from the
world of action to him who stood there, watching reality run past and
never stirring himself to take advantage of the thousand opportunities
for action. He would have discarded it for a part of his dream, had not
he seen John Woodbury raise his head sharply, heard the paper fall with
a dry crackling to the floor, and watched the square jaw of his father
jut out in that familiar way which meant danger.

Once more, and this time it was unmistakably clear: "John Bard,--John
Bard, come out to me!"

The big, grey man rose with widely staring eyes as if the name belonged
to him, and strode with a thumping step into the secret room. Hardly had
the clang of the closing door died out when he reappeared, fumbling at
his throat. Straight to Anthony he came and extended a key from which
dangled a piece of thin silver chain. It was the key to the secret room.

He took it in both hands, like a young knight receiving the pommel of