ime's short."

He closed his eyes as if fighting silently for strength.

Then: "When I was a lad like you, Anthony--" That was all. The massive
body relaxed; the head fell back into the dewy grass. Anthony pressed
his head against the breast of John Bard and it seemed to him that there
was still a faint pulse. With his pocket knife he ripped away the coat
from the great chest and then tore open the shirt. On the expanse of the
hairy chest there was one spot from which the purple blood welled; a
deadly place for a wound, and yet the bleeding showed that there must
still be life.

He had no chance to bind the wound, for John Bard opened his eyes again
and said, as if in his dream he had still continued his tale to Anthony.

"So that's all the story, lad. Do you forgive me?"

"For what, sir? In God's name, for what?"

"Damnation! Tell me; do you forgive John Bard?"

He did not hear the answer, for he murmured: "Even Joan would forgive,"
and died.

CHAPTER VII

BLUEBEARD'S ROOM

As Anthony Woodbury, he knelt beside the dying. As Anthony Bard he rose
with the dead man in his arms a mighty burden even for his supple
strength; yet he went staggering up the slope, across 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 they bore the weight up the stairs and placed it
on John Bard's bed. While Anthony kept his steady vigil by the dead man,
it was Peters again who summoned the police and the useless doctor.

To the old, uniformed sergeant, Anthony told a simple lie. His father
had gone for a walk through the grounds because the night was fine, and
Anthony was to join him there later, but when he arrived he found a
dying man who could not even explain the manner of his death.

"Nothin' surprises me about a rich man's death," said the sergeant,
"not in these here days of anarchy. Got a place to write? I want to make
out my report."

So Anthony led the grizzled fellow to the library and supplied him with
what he wished. The sergeant, saying good-bye, shook hands with a
lingering grip.

"I knew John Woodbury," he said, "just by sight, but I'm here to tell
the world that you've lost a father who was just about all man. So long;
I'll be seein' you again."

Left alone, Anthony Bard went to the secret room. The key fitted
smoothly into the lock. What the door opened upon was a l