Afterward Anthony Bard went back to the secret room of his father. The
old name of Anthony Woodbury he had abandoned; in fact, he felt almost
like 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 voice was the shears which snapped the trend of his life
and gave him a new beginning. As Anthony Bard he opened once more the
door of the chamber.
He had replaced the revolver of John Bard in the box with the oiled
silk. Now he took it out again and shoved it into his back trouser
pocket, and then stood a long moment 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 woman,
perhaps, had held and loved. In those dark, brooding eyes he strove to
read the mystery of his existence, but they remained as unriddled as the
free stars of heaven.
He repeated to himself his new name, his real name: "Anthony Bard." It
seemed to make him a stranger in his own eyes.
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