oss a level terrace, and back to the house. There it was Peters who answered his call, Peters with a flabby face grown grey, but still the perfect servant who asked no questions; together

through the grounds because the night was fine, and Anthony was to join him there later, b

d the sergeant, "not in these here days of anarchy.

nd supplied him with what he wished. The sergeant,

here to tell the world that you've lost a father who wa

evoid of a single article of furniture save a straight-backed chair in the centre. Otherwise Anthony saw three things-two pictures on the wall and a little box in the corner. H

ld be found, and the cause of the slaying. It held only two things; a piece of dirty silk and a small oil can; but the oil can and the black smears on the s

s why he went to the secret room as soon as he heard the call from the garden, and carrying that gun with him he had walked out, prepared. The time had come for which he had waited

ng, waiting, mocking him, eyes from behind which stared until a chill ran up h

as not that which made Anthony close his eyes. He was trying with all his might to conjure up his own image vividly. He looked again, comparing his picture wit

woman's eyes and lovely mouth made beautiful, but otherwise the same. He was simply a copy of that

his arms to her, drew closer, smiling as if she could meet and welcome his caress, a

o mountains, snow-topped in the distance, and in the foreground, first a mighty pine with the branches lopped smoothly from t

me, but it took on a different significance as he linked it with the two other objects in the room, the picture of his mother and the revolver

at the Garden had come, and from the West John Bard himself. Those two mountains, spear

y be a fine piece of building but it cannot be much admired. But place an engine in the hull and add to those fine lines the purr of a motor-there is a sight which brings a smile to the lips and a light in the e

tomb overlooking the waters of the sou

dating a new existence from the moment when he heard the voice calling out of the garden: "John Bard, come out to me!" If life was a thread, that

under the picture of the woman he knew was his mother. As he stared he felt himself receding to youth, to boyhood, to child days, finally to a helpless infant which that

culture; it suggested the air of a long descent. "Bard" was terse, short, brutally abrupt, alive with possibilities of action. Those possibilities h

w-topped mountains in the distance. There surely, was th

would carry with him an identification tag-a clue to himself. With that clue in his trav