"
"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.
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