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 little grey
apartment with an arched ceiling, a place devoid 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. He went about his work very calmly, for here, he knew, was the
only light upon the past of John Bard, that past which had lain passive
so long and overwhelmed him on this night.
First he took up the box, as being by far the most promising of the
three to give him what he wished to know; the name of the slayer, the
place where he could 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 silk made him look closer, closer until
the meaning struck him in a flare, as the glow of a lighted match
suddenly illumines, even if faintly, an entire room.
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